Poems, on sacred and other subjects :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems, on sacred and other subjects

and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs

Watt, William

ON THE Decay of the Scottish Language & Manners.

Elegy on Robert Frame,

Donald Stuart: a Tale.

THE CHANGE O' THE TIMES;

Hebrew Melodies.

The Vision of Mopus.

The Missionary's Death.

Britain's-Decline.

Epistle to I. Macpherson.

A Reflection on Life.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

The Rose of Sharon.

Awake, my harp, scarce heard ere now to ring,
Save by the genius of the mountain stream,
The sighing wood, or thyme-surrounded spring,
While brooding over fancy's fairy dream!
Awake! to swell by far a nobler theme
Than honours won upon the field of war—
Than Waterloo, where furbish'd steel did gleam,
When Wellington did gain the ducal star,—
Rich Sharon's thornless Rose now blooms on wild Sennar.

Rise, Africa, thou greatly injured land,
Wipe from thy aching eye the burning tear!
No more the rude marauder's ruthless hand
His predatory bark shall round thee steer;
No more his cruel threat thy sons shall fear,
Or, 'neath his scorpion-scourge, convulsive weep;
Grim Ferity smooths up his brow severe,
And Love triumphant rules both land and deep,
While Bondage shuts his eyes in everlasting sleep.

Faith hails the bless'd millennium's coming day
With all her ardent ecstacy of soul,
While Praise responsive joins the glowing lay
In strains that echo wide from pole to pole;
And, Afric, though the scorching heat of Sol
The rose and lily from thy sons hath driven,
Yet Freedom, deep engraved on Mercy's roll,
Shall open wide to them the gates of heaven,
And Slavery's hell-forged chains asunder shall be riven.

No change of clime knows Sharon's peerless Rose,
Its amaranthine bloom shall never fade;
Alike, with beauteous hue, it lustrous blows
On Atlas' top or in drear Greenland's shade;
Whether by Chalmers be its worth display'd,
Where learning scans each phrase with logic eye,
Or lone sequester'd missionary stray'd
'Mong nations rude, beneath another sky,
Where rang through ages gone the cannibal's war cry.

Hail, sons of light! whose unrestricted love
Hath borne you far from Britain's classic shore;
Your pilot be th' Immortal King above,
Who dare those gloomy regions wild explore,
Disseminating wide that heavenly lore
Which drives Delusion from his ebon throne;
Bursts the strange spell, which, passion's wand before
Destructive waved, throughout the burning zone,
And leaves angelic love within the soul alone.

Sweet, after stormy night, comes smiling morn,
To cheer the fields with warm prolific beam;
Sweet, to the sun-scorch'd Indian, faint, forlorn,
At sultry noon, is Ganges' cooling stream;
Sweet, to the fetter'd captive, is the dream
Of freedom, and release from want and woe;
But sweeter far the light which now doth gleam
On savage lands, and freely doth bestow
The unction that sole soothes sin's heart-convulsing throe.

Of this prophetic was that vision fair
Which Amram's augur, tranced on Peor high,
Beheld—ev'n Jacob's Star, whose radiant glare
Illumed the gloom of black futurity:
The wide-expanded kingdom he could 'spy
O'er which Messiah would in glory reign,
When all, 'neath torrid, mild, or frigid sky,
Should join in anthems, through the bless'd domain,
To Him whose cleansing blood once Calvary's cross did stain.

More awfully astounding was that sight
Which to the favour'd son of Amas shone,
Transcendent as high-noon surpasses night,—
Christ, drench'd in blood for sins, though not his own!
When o'er red Edom's fields he march'd alone,

Dyed in the wine-press of the wrath of God,
For sins of deepest tincture to atone,
Messiah the unequall'd vintage trode,
To waft the wanderers wild back to his own abode.

But rise, O Muse! in bolder climax still,
Take not a future but a past survey;
A sight appears, which makes the bosom thrill,
In the lone garden of Gethsemane:
The grand fulfilment of the prophecy,
That “death should have his death's-wound,” now draws near,
When, prostrate on the ground, the Saviour lay
In blood bedew'd from agony severe,
Drinking the sin-gall'd cup for man he loved so dear.

Trembling and sad, upon the great emprise,
Among his friends no watchful eye He found;
For, 'neath the weepings of the roral skies
They sank in death-like slumbers on the ground.
Then waved hell's black emblazon'd banners round,
As if, for man, the field of war were lost;
Again, the demon-troops their leader crown'd
With wreaths of fame; but short-lived was their boast,
For, quick, their vaunting vain was by destruction cross'd.

All, through the sable veil of frowning night,
At once the traitor-guided band appears,
And grim assassination's torches' light
Gleams direly clear on scimitars and spears.
Judas, the van of this base rabble, steers,
With heart perfidious, drench'd in bloody guile;
And, as His follow'rs stand absorb'd in fears,
He hails his Master, kissing him the while;
Yet hate Satanic beams through the dissembled smile.

A willing captive, see Him led away
By his own creatures,—who the theme can scan?
The Deity, enshrined in human clay,
To fall a victim 'neath the hand of man?
'Twas Thine, Omniscience, to devise this plan
Which prostrates reason to its matchless light;
Best emanation of that trine divan
By Godhead held, ere shone creation bright,
When, throughout bonndless space, reign'd dark chaotic night.

Expand thy wing, O Muse, the theme pursue!
The scatter'd flock behold, without their guide,
All timid fly from persecution's view,
Forsake their leader, and for safety hide.
But He—the mob's maltreatment must abide—
Is headlong borne into the judgment hall,
Where Pilate, who in council doth preside,
Condemns Him 'neath their brutal rage to fall,
That tumult's tongue may cease through envy's answer'd call.

The morning shines; but, oh! what tumult wild
Fills Salem's streets! what execrations ring!
Where praise erst flow'd, where beam'd devotion mild,
Where suff'ring touch'd compassion's keenest string!
While through the crowd heav'n's sin-destroying King
Bears his own cross to bloody Calvary,
That He, by death, may their salvation bring,
Who should, through faith, from their destruction fly;
Ev'n those who 'gainst his life in frantic rage now cry.

Suspended on the cross, He bleeds—He cries—
“My God, my God, why hast thou me forsaken?”
Hell's gloomy troops, aroused, as by surprise,
Feel in their souls hope's dim-seen form half 'waken.
But oft is guile by snares unlikely taken,
And grim despair fills hope's prolific womb,
And wisdom's deepest schemes to nought are shaken,
Or on their owners' heads destructive boom—
This demon-spirits felt when Jesus fill'd the tomb.

“'Tis finish'd!” hark! with this He yields his breath,
(Between two malefactors suff'ring, just);
Now in short triumph o'er his frame reigns death,
The sable tyrant with voracious lust.
But soon shall he receive his deadly thrust,
Have his dart broken, fatal-edged so long;
And all, who in redemption's virtue trust,
Shall swell with ecstacy the glorious song
To Him who vanquish'd death, that erst seem'd matchless strong.

O sight astounding! Impious and ingrate
Are their base hearts who throng the cross around,
Who now reward His love with murd'rous hate,
Who cured their sick—freed those by devils bound—
Who made the deaf's ears know the joy of sound—

The sightless eyes creation's beauties see—
Who call'd the dead from death's dark gulf profound—
And souls immured in sin from guilt set free;—
At recompense so base, light from his throne doth flee!

The sun, high vaulting on the arch of noon,
Sinks instantaneous in the gloom of night,
Without eclipse from intervening moon,
And earth's black orb rolls quite debarr'd from light;
Convulsed, she quakes; and pale terrific fright
The nations seizes, wond'ring at the view;
The vested high priest, swooning at the sight,
Beholds the temple's vail quick rent in two,
Emblem of access free to all believers true.

Three days within the gelid tomb He lay,
Then rose, victorious, conq'ring death and hell,
And with Him brought saints to the light of day
Who long lay fetter'd in death's dreary cell.
Thereafter He with men on earth did dwell,
Confirming thus His doctrine by His power,
Ere yet the Sacred Spirit on them fell;
Them to support, unto the latest hour,
'Gainst men and demon's rage, though leagued them to devour.

Behold His servants wand'ring far and wide,
His gospel preaching throughout ev'ry land;
None but the King of heav'n their aid and guide,
Who steers their course with secret-working hand.
Of Afric and Arabia's burning sand,
The pain, the toil, most patiently they bore;
With countless perils, from the sea and strand,
They warr'd, that distant lands might hear their lore,
And with the precious seed profuse be scatter'd o'er.

It grew, it blossom'd—shoot succeeding shoot:
Wide o'er the world did Sharon's Rose extend;
Till Rome's black venom, poisoning its root,
Its verdure blighted, and its boughs did rend.
Then, from the north dire, barb'rous tribes descend,
Huns, Goths, and Vandals, with victorious sweep;
Her learning and religion to defend
In vain Europa strove; for, like the deep,
They whelm'd all, round and round, in ruin's blasted heap.

Though darkness frown'd o'er Europe's deluged plains,
And all their once fresh-tinted bloom was fled;
Though brutal rage drove with triumphant reins,
While 'neath his car unnumber'd thousands bled;
Though Sharon's Rose seem'd rooted out and dead;
Yet heaven's protecting hand it kept the while:
One shoot He planted, and upon it shed
His choicest blessing—in Iona's isle—
There did it bud and bloom, 'neath his benignant smile.

And now o'er Britain it refulgent shines,
And sheds its glory hence through ev'ry clime;
Grim Paganism 'neath its blaze declines,
And fast approaches the millenial time.
Through savage lands is heard the dulcet chime
Of holy song, where murder's voice erst swell'd;
And Christian love, of union's bonds the prime,
Erects her throne where tortured captives yell'd;
And Zion's flag now floats, by ev'ry land beheld.

Caffraria yields; and India's sable sons
Refrain from owning Brumma for their god;
Through China's realms the glorious message runs
To light those who in Tien's pagod trode;
Dark Java, that inhospitable abode,
Now joins, of praise, the soul-elating tone:
And superstition's galling pond'rous load
Falls from your sons, Sumatra and Ceylon,
And countless other realms beneath the scorching zone.

Dim wane the lights of Mecca's radiant dome,
Sudden to set in everlasting night;
No sun-scorch'd pilgrim thitherward shall roam,
Nor mufti mutter o'er the impious rite;
The astonish'd Gaour sees Zoroaster's light
Drown'd by the splendour of the gospel-sun;
The roving Arab's sabre, glancing bright,
No more sheds terror o'er the desert dun
On peaceful caravans, who joy'd its sight to shun.

Through that drear land—the seat of exiles vile,
The outcasts of Britannia's lovely bow'rs—
Australia, yet shall moral feeling smile,
And sin-bound souls recruit their blasted pow'rs;
America, where mental stupor lours

With horrid gloom, with brutalising sway,
Shall bloom, refresh'd by Zion's genial show'rs,
From Patagonia north to Baffin's Bay,
And to rich harvest rise, beneath heaven's fostering ray.

Bless'd time, when every tongue, in every land,
Shall joyous join to swell Immanuel's praise,
Punctual as birds, when rosy morn's at hand,
When verdant spring the fields in green arrays.
Then Rage no more in flame his arm shall raise
Against his brother, threat'ning blood and death;
But glowing heart-felt love each act displays,
And pure devotion flows from every breath,
Nursed by that cordial balm, unfading Christian Faith.

Ferocity—thus contracted by the early English poets.

All Must Die.

“MORIENDUM EST OMNIBUS.”

Seest thou the carmine leave the rose,
And tulip wither'd lie;
This solemn message they disclose,
That “all on earth must die.”
Though summer decks the fields with green,
Fair to the raptured eye,
Yet winter writes on all the scene,
“All earthly things must die.”

The woodland's pride, the branching oak,
Long spreads his foliage round,
And shelter oft the cow'ring flock
Beneath his shade have found;
But storms at length impair his strength,
Apace his beauties fly;
Till, mould'ring low, to time he bow,
Exclaiming, “all must die.”

Hear'st thou the minstrels of the bow'rs
Sing in the summer beams,
'Mid honeysuckle's balmy flow'rs
That fringe the purling streams!

Stern winter comes; their lay no more
At morn or eve they ply;
Which sends this truth creation o'er,
“All joys on earth must die.”

Behold fair beauty's flushing cheek,
And eye like diamond clear,
And polish'd lily-brow so meek,
With charms the soul to cheer!
Age soon shall ridge that brow so white,
And dim that sparkling eye,
And that gay cheek's vermillion blight,
Proclaiming—“all must die.”

Though sadly solemn is the truth,
How few the tidings mind?
The vanities of flaunting youth
Their eyes enchanted blind:
E'en age, too oft in folly bound,
Lets time unheeded fly,
Unmindful of the warning sound—
“O man, thou soon must die!”

How sweet the retrospective glance
On Eden's blissful scene,
When endless rapture led the dance,
Unknown to sullen spleen!
But Eden's virgin joys are o'er,
Her blooms all blighted lie;
And death's black banner, stain'd with gore,
Denounces—“all must die.”

But mark yon beauteous angel bright,
That radiates through the gloom,
And waves her dazzling torch of light
Around the frowning tomb!
'Tis Faith! that cheers the humble soul,
That soothes the mourner's sigh,
And points to worlds, beyond control
Of death, where joys ne'er die.

Thus shall the just, like flowers in spring,
Revive when winter's past;
And soar, hosannas sweet to sing
In endless life at last.

Death's direful tempest raves no more,
Loud swelling to the sky,
For on Immanuel's blissful shore
No dweller e'er shall die.

Ode to Charity.

Daughter of the humid eye,
Weeping over misery,
Heaven marks thy ev'ry doing,
While thou art the path pursuing
That doth lead to scenes of bliss,
Past our knowledge while in this.

Test of faith art thou, in all
Who embrace the gospel's call;
Fruit of that most precious tree
Which from hunger's power doth free;
Faith and Hope resplendent shine,
But thour't the brightest of the trine.

Ode to Friendship.

O blessed magnet of the soul,
Source of earth's most ecstatic joy,
From thee throughout the mind do roll
Those pleasures which can never cloy!
The treasures of Peruvian mines
May charm the miser's eye,
But round the heart thy hand entwines
A band of surer tie.
Returning, and burning
With still increasing light,
To soothe here, and smooth here
Life's rough oppressive weight.

Sequester'd from the busy world,
The poring philosophic sage,
From social intercourse self-hurl'd,
With thee unheeded war doth wage.
Vague compensation for a friend
Is scientific skill;
The brow of care it can't unbend,
But knits it closer still.
Thy pleasure, past measure,
Haunts not his drear abode,
To cheer him, and bear him
Along the rugged road.

How joyously his moments float,
While sailing down the tide of time,
Who feels the mystic guardian knot
Him hold in pleasure's maze sublime.
To lend the charm of mirth in health,
Of succour in distress,
To man, is earth's most precious wealth,
His truest happiness.
He needs not, he heeds not
Imperial power and fame;
Their grandeur and splendour
His notice never claim.

O Thou, who know'st my ev'ry want,
As through this wilderness I stray,
My supplication hear, and grant
This darling boon, for which I pray:
A friend to cheer this mundane scene,
So direly tinged with woe,
Till one arrive, of brighter sheen,
To man unknown below;
Where caring, despairing,
Are objects far remote,
Where joying, uncloying,
Is ev'ry dweller's lot.

ON THE Decay of the Scottish Language & Manners.

Ye wha claim Scotland for your Mither,
And Independence ca' your Faither,
And hail, for your leal elder Brither,
Fidelity,
Join socially wi' ane anither,
To mourn wi' me.

Tis not the loss o' warldly gain,
(The miser's god, his joy and pain,)
That gars me pour my doolfu' main,
Wi' harp unstrung,
But 'cause they've scorn'd frae hill and plain
Our mither tongue.

Waeworth the day! trade's knavish face
First glintit on our native place,
And banish'd the expressive grace
O' words sae pawky,
And planted a base mongrel race,
No half sae knacky.

The muse-inspired bard dare scarce
Lilt owre a lay in Scottish verse;
The savage sounds their sauls wad pierce
Wi' siccan force,
They'd stap their lugs, and swear 'twas Erse
Or mongrel Norse.

Puir doitit fuils, are ye sae mean
As 'gainst true honour steek your een?
Ye whase forbears ha'e aften seen
War's field wi' Wallace;
Wha did o' yon invaders clean
Our hills and vallies.

Will ye, oh snoolt degenerate race,
Wear naething but a Scotsman's face?
Can freedom mark nae kindred trace
Within your heart,
That should hae been her resting place,
Unstain'd by art?

For siccan deeds sair should ye mourn,
And back to your allegiance turn,
And thae landlouper manners spurn
Ye're now pursuin',
Before in dark destruction's urn
They seal your ruin.

How sweet langsyne the time did glide,
When tongue and heart gaed side by side,
Before the accursed glare o' pride
Gleam'd owre the bent,
When on ilk glen and mountain wide
Smiled blithe content.

Folk lived at ease, and ne'er thocht lang;
Ambition shot nae venom'd stang;
The younkers struck the lover's sang
Wi' bosoms licht,
And parent's souls wi' pleasure rang
To see them richt.

Then honest labour wasna slichted,
Nor Scotland left in want benichted
By vagrant gentry, wha hae tichted
Taxation's ban's,
And harriet us, though they ha'e righted
A' foreign lan's.

But now, alake! a' comfort's gane;
Vice owre baith rich and poor doth reign;
Baith priests and laity sair may grane
In sackcloth weed;
Auld Scotland's devour'd, ne'er again
To raise her head!

Nae mair can sage historians tell
How Scotland's bairns wi' freedom dwell,
For now the darin' thistle fell
Hings doun its head;
And her sweet purple heather bell
Is wallowt dead.

Nae mair can bards her praises sing
Whase fame ance far and near did ring;
The harp's untuned in ilka string
For her misdeeds,
And her sweet minstrels doolfu' hing
Unlaurell'd heads.

Elegy on Robert Frame,

SHOEMAKER, EAST KILBRIDE.

Saffs! what mishanter's happen'd now,
That gars ilk body hing their brow?
“Wow, are the tidings strange to you?
Death's batt'rin'-ram
Has noost the carcase, black and blue,
O' Robin Fram!”

Hech sirs! great skaith the clachan's met,
His peregal we'll never get!
King Crispin's sons may whinge and fret
Aside their dram,
Sin' death has ta'en, as nature's debt,
Queer Robin Fram.

What toun could boast o' sic as he
Atween Port-Patrick and Dundee?
He gart the time like lightning flee,
When ane did happen
To touch his endless comic glee
Out owre a chappin.

He was a chield could fill the chair
O' Comus at a rant or fair!
Weel was he wordy o' a skair,
Frae ony body,
O' porter, yill, or better ware,
True blue or toddy.

When tired o' tuggin' limy leather
He brak industry's pinin' tether,
And kennin weel whar to forgether
Wi' chaps o' glee,
There would they bleeze wi' ane anither
Till a' were ree.

If chance him landed in a quarrel,
While tastin' o' the maut-bree barrel,
He didna stan' to rive and harle,
But doun on's back,
Syne wi' his legs he keepit parle,
And flang and strack.

In pantomime he was a Roscius,
Could bang their circus braggadocios;
In Greek he could ha'e puzzled Grotius
Wi' his deep head:
But, oh! his want ilk birkie's woe shows,
For Robin's dead.

Ye fiddlin' sons o' great Apollo,
Wha thrum for cash the dancin' solo,
For manliness he beat you hollow;
For Robin ever
Drank a' his pay: whate'er might follow
He pouch'd it never.

Mourn him a' ye wha deal in liquor,
For sib was he to the ale bicker;
His face oft gart ye laugh and nicker,
At his ain cost;
He was a frequent prize, and sicker;
But now he's lost.

Yet, if respect for the deceased
Fill ony neuk within your breast,
A snod headstane ye'll raise at least
To mark his graff;
And, gratis, I shall gi'e ye neist
His Epitaph.

EPITAPH.

Cauld below lies Robin Fram,
Wha sincerely loved his dram,
By which love he'll surely merit
To be call'd a man of spirit.
True, indeed; but 'tis a pity
'Twas the sp'rit of aquavitæ.

An exceedingly inoffensive man, whose humour over a quiet glass was truly entertaining, to those who could occasionally withdraw the frown of gravity from their brows.

A kind of gipsy jargon, with which he sometimes amused his companions in his revels, to which he gave the name of Greek.

Donald Stuart: a Tale.

The sun was set yont Ballageich,
Tha snaw fell thick, the wind was heigh,
The craws had left the dark muir-side
To shelter in the haughs o' Clyde;
The kye were bound up in the byre,
And we sat round the gleesome fire;
Whan Donald Stuart, blind and lame,
Led by his dug, withouten hame,
Blew up his chanter at our door,
Whilk at Culloden rang before.
The bairns were blithe, whan frae the loan
They heard the sound o' Donald's drone,
And loot him in wi' flichtrin speed,
And fed his dug wi' bits o' bread.
Wi' eild and storm was Donald yowden,
And's legs wi' dirt were sairly browden,
His shouthers daugit owre wi' snaw,
Whilk ance were clad in tartan braw,
And cauld, and aiblins hunger fell,
Mair pity drew than tongue can tell.

Sair vex'd to see the puir auld man,
To sort him up ilk lent a han';
Ane lowst his meal-pock and his plaid,
Anither laid his pipes aside;
Ane dawded frae his locks the snaw,
Anither aff his hose did draw;
Syne set him by the cheerie ingle,
Wi' some warm meat, which gart's bluid tingle;
While aft we could wi' feeling trace
Joy's tear rin doun his furrow'd face.

Revived, at length, he fell a cracken,
And, oh! how did his spirits waken!
Whan tellin' how the Highland clans
Fought at Falkirk and Prestonpans;
Or how they march'd across the Tweed,
Wi' gallant Charlie at their head;
Or how the folk upbye at Lon'on
Were quakin' when the Prince was comin'.
His breast wi' martial fire wad goup
While blithely singin' “Johnnie Cope;”

His fingers owre the lilts wad fly
At “Charlie in the Isle o' Skye.”
But when Culloden field cam' roun'
His voice strack up anither soun',
And aft the tears cam' trickling doun.
Yet still he tauld the waefu' story,
And in the hopeless cause wad glory;
Still brag o' Charlie's deeds o' fame,
Whan fechtin for his lawfu' hame;
And boast about his look and air,
His bonnie face and yellow hair.
Wi' feidfu' wrath he'd bitter ban
The waefu' Duke o' Cumberlan',
(Wha cam' against them on the fiel',)
And vow'd he was sent by the deil.

Neist lovely Flora he did praise
For a' her couthie friendly ways,
And fealty to the Stuart cause,
And guid auld hamely Scottish laws,
Whilk, wi' guid reason, plain declare
The son to be the faither's heir.

Whan a' his cracks he had gane o'er,
At whilk the younkers a' did glour,
Upon the floor he got them ranked,
And gart them dance, while they could shank it,
To hieland reels and brisk strathspeys,
Auld Scotland's cantie festive lays.

It happen'd that this vera e'en
Was just the nicht o' Valentine;
And some blithe nei'bour lads and lasses
Met at our house, to try what passes
Wi' future fortune on sic nichts,
When weird her magic candle lichts.

Thrice they boost a' their fortune try,
To see how aften changed the dye;
And whether they gat names they likit,
Or gyn they mix'd (whilk sair them fykit).
At length their fates were fairly fix'd,
And some wi' ithers coshly mix'd
In lo'esome kisses o' their joes,
To them a rapt'rous glad'nin' dose.
Syne gart auld Donald fill the drone,
And play till he was richt far yon;

Wi' foursome reels and country dances
They tired their legs and pleased their fancies;
Till, pechan, they bood quat the wark,
Fair fouchten out, though young and stark.
The lasses vow'd they'd dance nae mair,
And dried their faces, red their hair;
The lads raised groats apiece, to pay
The piper for his minstrelsy;
And a' declared, before they'd gang,
They'd hear auld Donald sing a sang.
He needed nae fraca o' fleeching,
Like some, amaist as lang's a preaching,
But clear'd his hawse, and syne began;
And thus his hamely ditty ran.

DONALD'S SANG.

[_]

TUNE, “Green Grow the Rashes.”

CHORUS.

Green grow the rashes, O,
Green grow the rashes, O,
Nae pleasure has this world to me,
But when I'm wi' the lasses, O.

I scorn earth's hardships, cares, and toils,
Despair me never fashes, O,
For blithe I'll toddle sax Scots miles
At e'en, to see the lasses, O.

In barn or byre, 'mang hay or strae,
The time most cheerfu' passes, O,
Where aft, till cocks proclaim the day,
I tousle wi' the lasses, O.

When a' the lave are sound asleep,
The lazy doitit hashes, O,
I draw the bar, and out I creep
Mysel', to see the lasses, O.

There's Sandie Bell and Geordie Bane,
Though twa unfeelin' asses, O,
They'll fecht while they can stan' their lane
If ought insult the lasses, O.

And here's to ilka manly chiel',
Wha late and early splashes, O,
Through dub and mire, frae neck to heel,
Before he'll want the lasses, O.

The sang was roost by auld and young;
The whisky bottle ben was brung
By the guidwife, wi' muckle mense,
To mak' a kind o' recompense
To Donald for his blithesome ditty,
Sae primely timed, and eke sae witty;
Syne, after that, the younkers parted
In social mood, and a' licht hearted.
To 's bed auld Donald gaed, and sleepit
Till clear the sun o'er mountains peepit;
His breakfast gat, then march'd awa,
Wi' 's faithfu' dog, amang the snaw.

THE CHANGE O' THE TIMES;

An Ingle Crack.

The sun ayont the dark hills drappit doun,
An' frae the loch the curlers had return'd
Wi' dozint han's, an' dreepin' noses blae,
Splorin' the hale road hame amang the snaw;
While, frae the wast, the cauld win' louder blew,
Shorin' o' drift, the shepherd's sairest wae.

To drive the night aff wi' a social crack,
Blythe Robin Rae, wi's stockin', doitit down
To his auld cronie, hamely Saunders Gray;
Wha, wi' his spouse, sat beekin' by the ingle,
While their oe Tammie did himsel' divert
Twirlin' a tottum on the clean hearth-stane.
Blithe were the twa, when Robin's hoast they heard
Ayont the hallan, while he daudit frae
His shoon the snaw, an' his blue bonnet sheuk.
Withouten ceremony, ben comes he,
Wi' common salutation, “Wha warms best
Amang ye here the nicht?”—“Wha's niest the fire,”
Quoth Janet, while she brings a chair, an' rypes
The ribs to gratify their lealfu' guest.

When he had o' the ingle taen a glaise
To set the blood in motion through his han's,

He frae his pouch whips out his clue an' wires,
An' syne began a stockin' to cast on,
Wi' yarn that his ain thriftie Elspa span.
Saunders was, wi' the souple o' a flail,
Thrangly engaged, fittin' a tug to stan'
The niest day's wark; while Janet, at her wheel,
Joined wark wi' crack, an' fast the time gaed on.

Robin.
Hech, Sirs! but things are sairly alter'd now,
Ye'd think the warl' maist turn'd upside down.
As I cam' yont the loan by Arthur Gawt's
It was, wi' gossip's tongues, baith wives an' men,
Bummin' like ony barn on bridal nights,
Or bee-skep at the castin'.

Saunders.
E'en sae, man!
Truth, little better can come o' the gear
His umquhile gutcher wan; gin tales be true,
It cam' nae honest way. He was a body
Wha wadna lea a stane unturn'd, whare he
Could think his greedy clutches would come speed.
It matter'd na' by what way 'twas obtain'd,
Saebeins he gat it; now the kintra's clatter
Is—“Sin' it cam' by win', 'twill gang by water.”
But what need ane say aught o' Arthur Gawt?
The maist feck o' the warl' is gaun as fast
Into the clutches o' the glede as he!

Robin.
I kenna how they manage to keep up
Sic dear garivishin; certes, were I
To try, about my buird, sic costly pranks,
I'd soon be tethert by fell poortith's branks.
But sair, I dread, the upshot o' sic wark
Will gar some rue the day when they began
To ape the manners o' the rich an' great.

Janet.
'Twill soon be seen whar a' their grandeur lies,
Poor, thochtless fools! wha ha'e nae fear o' Guid,
Nor loove to mense ava', but rin in debt,
Withouten either will or power to pay:

They ken the warst is but to be a dyvour—
A thing nae ferlie now-a-days.

Saunders.
Were laws as strict as I wad ha'e them made,
I trow for beagles there wad be less trade,
Or mair for hangmen; I'd gar the woody
Haud mair respeck for honesty amang us,
Than a' that ministers can say or do!

Robin.
Soon wen ye on the bench! for trugs, I'm rede,
Sax hunder mark laird Barehips gat frae me,
A towmond byegane at auld Hallowe'en,
Will be like butter in the black dog's hause.
For, when I stappit down ae night at e'en
To lift the int'rest, soon I fan', I trow,
To my nae sma' vexation, nae great rowth
Within his coffer. Wealth o' show they ha'e;
Braw carpet floors, and gowd rimm'd China cups,
Bottles and glasses rife, and frank and fair—
But what sairt that to me, when a' I gat
Was twa-three dish o' tea; for bread, waesocks!
'Twas thin as ony wafer. That was a'
I thumb'd for my kin' aid in time o's need.
He promised fair, nae doubt, that he wad sen't,
An' spak' as it were but to him a trifle;
But whare is't yet?

Janet.
My trowth it's in their wames,
Like muckle mair guid gear o' ither folks!
Bare, braggin' beggars, whase hale study is
To twine ger thrifty folk out o' their gear,
An' rant about like lords an' ladies a'!
While we maun toil to bear their howtie heads.

Saunders.

It's no that licht to thole sic herryment;
Gear's no sae easy won to gang sic gaets;
But there has come amang us now sae mony
Outlandlish manners, that ilk corky-head
Wad swap his conscience, e'er he'd want the means
Wherewi' to haud him saunterin' about

Wi' guns, an' grews, an' pointers. Willawins!
It's like to gar a body's teeth a' water
To see their gomril gaets, when ane looks back
Upon the mensefu' ways o' our forebears.

'Deed, Robin, I was something like yoursel';
Owre rash in takin', for guid twenty pounds,
Laird Grippock's line; whilk, had I lang delay'd,
Wad been nae better than Squire Barehips' word.
But, I did herd the loun, till, timeously,
Just when his dochter's name was in the kirk,
I threaten'd I wad lay the lad in jail—
Whilk gart him draw his purse his name to save,
Else I had got the whistle o' my groat.

Janet.
Few brides were blither than was I, atweel,
When our guidman cam' laughin' ben the floor,
Sayin'—“It is na a' tint that's in hazard.”—
An' now it's whare there is but little skaith,
As lang's the nation mans to keep her feet—
In B---n and C---ck's bank.

Robin.
Guid sen' that mine were in as sicker han's!
But, leezance! it's past redemption now,
I muckle dread, or in great jeopardy.
But should I loss't, 'tis but ae lesson mae
To a' the kintra, to tak' tent in time
O' billies wham they see unkeen o' wark
And fond o' finery.

Saunders.
Were siccan airs confined
'Mang folk wha claim nae orra holiness,
'Twere less; but now we see our priests as vain
And howtie, as they were na' sent to preach
Humility, but a' the pride o' Nick.

Robin.
Sax towmonds past at Lammas 'tis sin we
Were favoured wi' a visit o' Mass John;
And had it no been for some selfish en',
I ferlie muckle gif we'd seen him then.

He cam' to gi'e us notice that niest year
Our stent was to be raised.

Janet.
And batin' ance, when he our Meg did kipple,
He hasna' cross'd our hallan sin' he cam'—
Na, na, they downa speak to hamely folk:
Ye'll get but little o' their company
Unless ye keep a buird might sair a king.
I'm rede, gif they had lived in former days,
They had bestowed on Martha a' the praise.

Robin.
Ay, ay! they're a' fu' ready at a snoist;
Few o' them wad, I trow, reprove a cook
For losin' time, gin they were to be guests:
It's but to sic like howffs they loove to tramp.
To haud examines in a cauld, bare barn,
Is what our pastors now-a-days contemn,
They're a' sae skeigh an' gentle 'mang their flocks.
Our kirk, I fear, wad on her hunkers sit,
Were the dark days o' persecution back,
Which tried their creed wha wonn'd in thae grim times:
Few o' our cozie lads wad tak' the hills,
Ere they'd subscribe the whore o' Bab'lon's creed,
Like Peden, Welsh, Cargill, an' mony mae.

Saunders.
'Deed they were men who seem'd to ha'e at heart
The cause o' Him wham they profess'd to serve;
And, rather than mak' shipwreck o' their faith,
Suffer'd the fate o' martyrs—countin't gain
To lea' the sinfu' warl', wi' a' its pomp,
And dwell where want and pain are never known.
But, waesocks! it's owre true that ye ha'e said,
Our priests ha'e tint the spirit o' their function;
They tend the flock in houp to get the fleece,
And fallow na their Master's great comman'—
“To feed the poor”—for, certes, now we see
They a' their care bestow upon the rich,
And downa keek within a poor thing's door,
To drap the balm o' comfort on a saul
Pinin' beneath a lade o' want an' trouble.

Robin.
Fu' weel I mind, ere I was in my teens,
Our umquhile pastor yearly through us cam'
To tairge us in our caritches, fu' fell,
Whilk pat us in a fizz o' fervour a'
To get oursel's weel versed in holy things,
That we might stan' wi' mense when he cam' roun',
And be a credit to oursel's and him:
Forbye, a visit he ilk towmond gied
To ilka family within his parish,
To pray, exhort, an' talk o' things divine.
But now we scarce can weekly see the face
O' our instructor, he's sae pinch'd to come
Before us on the Lord's ain holy day;
And e'en, when he appears, he canna speak
Ae word till ance he has his sermon spread,
Drawn out on black-an'-white, before his face,
Whilk gars him snoove aboon't wi' hingin' head,
That I can scarce hear ae word o' a score;
And sae come hame as wise as I gaed there,
For ought I get frae him.

Janet.
An' sae it fares
Wi' mony mae than you; our younkers a'
Will be nae mense to him, fu' weel I wat.

Saunders.
Howe'er it fare wi' them beneath their care,
The stipend and the glebe are sure to them
While government can gar us pay the tithes;
And that they'll do, unless their greater need
Rax out a paw an' haurlet to themsel's.

Robin.
A trick like that wad gar the billies think,
And shaw their pow'rs o' skill themsel's to raise
By merit, wha by patronage before
Securely sat, and shuffled by the time.
That government is needfu' is nae doubt—
How can it happen else? when plain we see
Them sawin't frae them, 'mang the nations 'roun',
Supportin' wars by their ain pride raised up;

Syne tax on tax comes out, till haith, I'm rede,
They'll wi' their greed us dyvour a' thegither.

Saunders.

Taxes! the vera name aye puts me hyte—
Fient haet that ane can either eat or wear
But's worried by that worm within the gourd.
Our food, our claes, tobacco, licht, and fire,
Our horses, carts and cars, our dogs and roads—
Trowth cats will be upon the list ere lang,
To crown the monstrous burden o' oppression.

Our Bawtie, faithfu' beast, has toddlit now,
About the house and on the hill, for mair
Than half-a-score o' years; and weel I wat
A wiser tyke than he ne'er took the hill
In drifty nichts, or yet mair helpfu' was
'Mang thrawart sheep, when sweer to tak' the bught;—
But on his head a tax they now ha'e clappit,
Whilk gars me yearly draw my purse, and pay
What micht me furnish wi' a special pair
O calf-skin shoon. I canna tak' his life,
And sae maun bide, to my richt sair affliction,
The bitin' lash o' our guid government.

Janet.
Poor beast, he's been our help whan little else
We had frae frien' or fremit—he shanna want
His mouthfu' while we ha'e a bite to gi'e 'im,
And that without a grudge, though trowth the tax
Is no' that light to thole.

Robin.
I drown'd our “Help,” though sair against my will,
But he was doilt and useless grown wi' eild,
Though in his younger days he was fu' fleet.
And could (ere licence had to be procured
By lairds to hunt a hare on their ain lan'),
Ha'e ta'en the bauldest maukin ever ran;
Whilk loot us aften dine on venison,—
Wha now daur nae mair think on sic a snoist,
Than dought a Jew upon a grumphy's griskin.
Scarce had I heaved the poor tyke in the pool,
When something in my breast condemn'd the deed,
And waukint in my min' the voice o' pity,

Scauldin' me sairly for the miser greed
O' this warl's gear, that I amaist lap in
To bring him ance mair to the licht o' day:
I curst the king and a' his ministers,
Wha forced me to a deed that cost sic pain;
Syne hameward cam', wi' dowie heart and wae,
Wi' tears o' grief an' anger in my e'e.

Saunders.

For siccan grief we've Willie Pitt to thank,
That won'er o' our isle, that's looked on
By some as ane inspired by God himsel'
To set the whomilt nation on her feet;
Though sair I dread that he and his successors
Will throw her in a pit, from whilk she ne'er,
In our day nor our sons', again will rise.

When thus they had wi' lang discussion sittin'
On errors in baith kirk and cabinet,
The conversation took anither turn,
To things mair suited to their hamely lear,—
The state o' markets, price o' horse an' kye,
Births, deaths, and marriages—till clinkum-bell
The hour o' bed-time frae the steeple rang,
Whan Robin pat his stockin' in his pouch—
His plaid threw roun' him—took guid nicht—and syne
Hame doitit to his ain bien house and bed.

Hebrew Melodies.

MELODY FIRST. Nahum, Chap. I.

The Elkoshite—by heaven inspired,
When night to western realms retired,
And Sol Philistia's mountains fired—
His face directed easterly.

With thrilling heart and rolling eyes
He feels prophetic transport rise:—
“Thy awful doom await,” he cries,
“From Justice, bloody Nineveh!

“Jehovah, though to anger slow,
With indignation red doth glow
To wreak His wrath on thee, his foe,
Thou daughter of iniquity!
The whirlwind, rapid, rolling far,
And clouds, He makes his flying car;
Seas, rivers, by Him dried up are,
Such is His matchless majesty!

“The verdant mountains languish, sere;
The stable hills all quake for fear;
Burn'd up is earth's wide rolling sphere,
Before His dread immensity.
Who can endure His kindled ire?
High swells His wrath, like seas of fire;
Yet proves a Saviour and a Sire
To sons of pure fidelity.

“But grim Destruction's swelling wave,
And dark Oblivion's lightless cave,
Will prove the wicked's sullen grave,
Where reigns eternal misery.
What do ye plot against the Lord,
In impious league, with one accord?
No second stroke his furbish'd sword
Shall seek of you, O enemy!

“For while in union close you lie,
And think no foeman's hand is nigh,
You'll be burnt up, like stubble dry,
Amidst your drunken revelry.
Thy sons of Belial high may swell
Gainst Him who rules in Israel,
Yet, though His millions all rebel,
God rides the car of victory.

“His dread decree is 'gainst thee gone,
Thy power on earth no more is known,
Thy idols vile he will dethrone,
Thee doom to death eternally.

O Judah, lift thy woe-worn eyes,
Behold thy Saviour to thee hies;
No more shall Belial 'gainst thee rise,
For now he 's vanquish'd utterly.”

MELODY SECOND. Nahum, Chap. II.

Again the Seir raised his voice,
And pour'd the awful doom;
The troops of war, before his eyes,
Presaged destruction's gloom:
He saw unnumber'd banners float,
Turms quick to battle boom,
And thus denounced the City's lot,
While yawn'd the stanchless tomb.

“O Nineveh, destruction's sword
Against thee glances bright:
Secure the fort; let sentry's word
Be heard both day and night;
Attire thy strong with sword and spear
In all their strength and might:
But with thy foe doth God appear,
Thy vengeance to requite.

“The en'my mad, in scarlet clad,
Heaves high the blazing shield;
Their weapons clash; their chariots flash
Like lightning o'er the field.
In rubbish lie the broken walls,
The river's gates now yield,
The flame runs through the palace-halls,
Where pamper'd riot reel'd.

“And Huzzab, weeping, captive led,
Shall leave her stable throne;
Her maids, with eyes like coral red,
Shall loud her fate bemoan.
Thus Nineveh, though old in years,
Must evermore be gone!
The rallying shout though each one hears,
Yet backward look shall none!

“Rise, seize the spoil of silver clear,
And gold of endless store;
Thy heart with plunder, warrior, cheer—
Her glory now is o'er.
Each heart doth melt, each sinew shrink,
Through pain and terror sore;
Despair doth quite their spirit drink:
They fall—to rise no more.

“Like ravening lions, fierce and dire,
Her children ravaged round,
Despoiling towns by sword and fire,
In blood the nations drown'd.
But God, aroused to flaming ire,
Shall all her power confound;
Nor herald's voice, nor thrilling lyre,
Shall in her chambers sound.”

Turms—Troops: used by the old English poets.

MELODY THIRD. Nahum, Chap. III.

This mournful dirge the Prophet pour'd,
In numbers sad and slow,
When low the City lay devour'd
By the victorious foe:—
“Woe to the City! full of guile,
And riches, plunder'd nation's spoil;
No future day shall make thee smile;
Woe! bloody City, woe!

“The crackling whip, the rattling wheels,
And prancing horses sound;
The blood-stain'd chariot, rapid, reels
With dire and deadly bound.
In serried ranks the horsemen rear
The glancing sword, the glitt'ring spear;
And sumless slain, with aspect drear,
Bestrew the bloody ground.

“The comely harlot's witching lure,
(In incantations skill'd,)
And countless whoredoms base, impure,
Thy deadly cup have fill'd:

For God shall bring thee to disgrace,
And show thy crimes upon thy face:
He'll quite ecscind thee from thy place;
Thy beauty shall be spill'd.

“And all who knew thee once shall flee
Far from thy ruins wild,
Wailing that none can comfort thee,
Of mirth and beauty spoil'd:
For now, like mighty sea-lined No,
Round which prolific streams did flow,
Thou'rt levell'd by the northern foe,
Where tow'ring fanes once smiled.

“Thy children, like the drunkard weak,
Will call for strength in vain,
Or for a place of safety seek,
While red fate guides the rein.
As drop-ripe fruit falls from the trees
When shaken by the slightest breeze,
So will the foe thy ramparts seize,
And level with the plain.

In vain draw waters for the storm,
Or strongholds fortify;
In vain like hills the bastion form,
High heaving to the sky;
For open to the en'my's hand
Are laid the portals of the land;
Their power thy warriors can't withstand;
Flames all thy bars destroy.

Unnumber'd as the heavenly hosts
Thy gilded princes shone;
Like locusts swarming round the coasts
Thy merchants flow'd anon;
In countless troops thy warriors spread
Their serried ranks, the nations' dread;
But, quite ennerved, they basely fled,
And all thy grandeur's gone.

“Assyria's king, now lift thine eyes,
And on thy wardens call;
Alas! no subject hears thy cries,
Thy nobles slumber all!

At this thy fate all lands wiil sing,
And triumph's shouts around thee ring;
In every breast will rapture spring,
Relieved now from thy thrall.”

MELODY FOURTH. 2d Samuel, I. 19, &c.

Thy beauty, Israel, now lies slain
Upon the mountains high,
Or, stretch'd upon the gory plain,
Thy fallen mighty lie.
Let Gath nor Askelon not hear
Those news, so grating to my ear,
Which will the uncircumcised cheer,
While I do weep and sigh.

May never dew nor rain descend
Upon Gilboa's hills;
Nor off'ring's fume in ether wend
By banks of murm'ring rills;
For there the shield which blazed around
Lies trampled on the blood-stain'd ground;
Thy shield, O Saul, by unction bound,
Lies prostrate at their wills.

The bow doth Jonathan no more
Bring from the foughten field;
Nor Saul, as oft in times before,
His sword, with valour steel'd.
They lovely in their lives have been,
And death them sever'd not, I ween;
Swifter than eagles—on the green,
Like lions, slow to yield.

Weep, Jacob's daughters, o'er his urn,
Who you in scarlet clad:
With voice of woe his slaughter mourn!
Ah me! my soul is sad.
Oh how, within the battle's swell,
Have perish'd they I loved so well?
Could no bless'd arm the stroke repel
Of destiny so bad?

O Jonathan, to me, thy love
Excell'd the ardent throe
Which doth the female bosom move
To rapture's warmest glow.
But now from me are ever fled
They who so oft to vict'ry led;
The strength of war lies prostrate, dead,
By this marauding foe.

MELODY FIFTH. Proverbs, VII. 6, &c.

The sun was set, and evening grey
Crept o'er the plain, in lieu of day;
The bird of night pour'd forth her lay
Among the sylvan scenery.

Then from my window I did spy
What made the tear conglobe my eye;
What raised the deep heart-burden'd sigh,
And struck the strings of sympathy.

Adown the street, impell'd by fate,
A youth I saw, of airy gait,
Brush swift along, with look elate,
To meet his hidden destiny.

For, lo! a harlot, gaily dress'd,
Him to her lustful bosom press'd,
And hail'd him, as a welcome guest
For her base stanchless lechery.

Her language smooth soon gain'd his heart;
It seized him like enchantment's dart;
Her potent soul-subduing art
Him lured to matchless misery.

Her wiles he had not power to brook,
But instant snatch'd the baited hook,
And virtue's radiant path forsook
To fall through weak simplicity.

Ye youths, attend to this my tale,
Who stray through sleek temptation's vale,
Where thousands fall, which makes them wail
Through time and long eternity.

MELODY SIXTH. Solomon's Song, Chap. II. III.

My beloved exclaim'd, “Rise, my love, ever fair!
To the banquet of cloyless delight quick repair;
For the winter of sorrow hath fled far away,
And the mild spring of gladness shines bright as noonday.
The flowers of the field now 'mong dew-drops are springing;
From each bush and spray native music is ringing;
Even sweet Philomela, unrivall'd in singing,
Beguiles the lone night with her soul-melting lay.

“Now the young luscious figs 'mong the green leaves are found;
And the rich clust'ring grapes weigh their stems to the ground,
Which with sweet flav'rous scent doth the garden perfume:
Rise, my love! come away: thou art beauty's best bloom.
Among lilies we'll rove till the break of the morning,
And the sun banish night, while the fields he's adorning;
Bound, my love, like a roe, all dependency scorning;
On Bethel's green mountains thy freedom resume.”

By night, on my bed, I did seek for my love,
And yet all my search unsuccessful did prove;
But when I was wand'ring the city around,
To my joy and surprise, my beloved I found.
“O beloved,” I cried, “never leave nor forsake me,
But of thy joys divine let me always partake free;
The daughters of Zion shall never awake thee,
Till in thy soft slumbers all langour be drown'd.”

MELODY SEVENTH. Psalm CXXXVII.

By the banks of Euphrates we sat down and wept,
When we thought of mount Zion, from which we were torn!
On the green waving willows our mute harps now slept,
While they hung on the breeze-shaken poplars forlorn.

For there did our victors rude call out for gladness,
Even those who our spoilers were sought from us mirth;
Saying, “Strike up the lyre, to dispel pensive sadness;
Give us one of the songs of the place of your birth.”

Shall our hallow'd harps ring in a far foreign land?
Shall we touch their sweet strings at the will of a foe?
Nay; let us lose rather the skill of our hand
Than waft on their ears Zion's grand sacred flow.

O Jerusalem, if I remember thee not,
Let my tongue sleep in silence, and sound never more;
I'd far rather share in thy now ruin'd lot
Than deny thee for all mighty Babylon's store.

Remember, O Lord, Edom's ruthless descendants,
In the red day of vengeance, for Zion destroy'd;
Who cried, “Lay in ruins, to spite our contendants,
Their great boasted city, that hath us annoy'd.”

O daughter of Babylon, doom'd to fell ruin,
The foe soon shall reach thee, our woes to requite;
And to thine own house shall thy children pursue in,
And dash them to pieces before thy dimm'd sight.

MELODY EIGHTH. Isaiah, Chap. VI.

High borne, beyond creation's bounds,
Where spheres unnumber'd fly,
To that pure clime where love resounds,
And rapture fires each eye:
Far, far-receded from the view,
The stars, which gild our arch of blue,
Outshone, by light of purer hue
Which spirits sole can spy:

To that bright region rapt was I,
Where God immediate reigns,
Whose brilliant temple, tow'ring high,
Adorns the spacious plains;
Where seraphs strike the chiming lyre—
Not strung, like ours, with thrumming wire,
But with what suits their glorious choir—
And dulcet vocal strains.

High on his throne Jehovah sat,
In splendour matchless bright;
But of the angels—none thereat
Could look,—so pure the light!
Veil'd with the wings of awe they stand,
And chaunt their hymns in concord grand;
Or fly like lightning—at command—
Which gilds the vault of night.

Struck with the glory of the scene,
How justly I did cry—
“Alas! should I, of lips unclean,
On heaven's courts dart an eye?
'Mong rebel sinners I do dwell,
Who shun Jehovah's praise to swell;
To me more just the vault of hell,
Where vengeance red doth fly.”

But when a seraph touch'd my tongue
With inspiration's power,
Close to the heavenly cause I clung,
With ecstacies, that hour
A willing messenger, to fly,
At God's supreme behests, with joy;
Calling aloud—“Lo! here am I
To go, though judgment lour.”

Then issued from Jehovah's throne
The message sad and drear:—
“This people spy out, though they 'lone
Possess my records clear.
So, dim the sight of every eye,
And shut all ears that sound comes nigh,
Lest they repentance should descry,
And find forgiveness here.”

MELODY NINTH. Genesis, VII. 10, &c.

The wind arose, the sky was dark,
No lay was heard from thrush or lark,
Nor swelling wave did stir the Ark,
That sacred safe menagerie:

Till frowning gloom grew darker still,
And sackcloth topp'd each tow'ring hill,
And fear began each breast to fill,
When lightnings burst forth brilliantly.

Then woke the thunder's awful roar,
More dire than e'er was heard before;
And down the heavens their torrents pour,
Round all the black convexity.

In vain do man and beast now fly
For refuge to the mountains high;
The quaking heart and streaming eye
Can not avert their destiny.

The surges swell with rapid sweep,
And cities sink within the deep,
While crowds, assembled on each steep,
See earth turn ocean suddenly.

Both night and day they trembling stand,
Or roam in search of higher land;
But, follow'd by the murd'rous strand,
They sink into eternity.

The rains now stop, the sky is clear;
And now, a shoreless ocean drear,
Earth rolls, a glitt'ring wat'ry sphere,
Beneath the crystal canopy.

Till Ararat's high mountains rise
Majestic to the smiling skies,
Whereon the Ark, safe-moor'd, now lies
In absolute security.

The Vision of Mopus.

ANALYSIS.

An apostrophe to Indolence—with a view of a person under its control. The character of Mopus, in the early part of his life—his trance, and ascent to the Temple of Wisdom.—The mirror of Sapientia, with his explanation of the objects seen therein.—His return, in which he withstands the allurements of Vice, by the admonition of Self-Love.— His entertainment and discourse with Sobriety in the green vale of Contentment.—His future conduct.—An encomium on Industry.

I.

Lord of the sallow tatter'd crew,
Thy listless look I loath to view;
Thy thread-bare raiment, blotch'd with dust,
Doth strike the soul with deep disgust.
Say, languid loiterer, oh say!
Why thus from happiness you stray?
Can mortals Pleasure's face descry
Through the black veil of Poverty?
Can Misery, in wrath, e'er plant
A direr shaft than haggard want?
Ah no! this truth full well I weet,
Want is with earthly ills replete.
In poverty's cloud-darken'd vale
What woes the cheerless wight assail!
Blank, drear, is all creation's smile,
When poverty doth reign the while:
Cashless—then straight an exile driven,
Damn'd by the laws of earth and heaven.
Oh, Indolence! thou bane of life,
Thy vot'ries war in endless strife;
Hunger and cold, and jails and rags,
Attend thee, while through life thou lagg'st.
Friendless and poor, what joy, what mirth,
Can mortals find upon the earth?
Disease lurks in thy stagnant blood,
And poisons all the crimson flood;

Thy powerless nerves “more ease” still cry,
Though fate awake necessity;
And, like the searing eastern wind,
Steals slumb'ring stupor o'er thy mind.

II.

Behold yon burden'd son of sloth
Still wishing time away;
Slow from his bed he rises, loth,
Even at the noon of day.

His children clamant are for bread,
And, beggar-like, with rags are clad,
Pale as the living's mortal foe
Who threatens soon to end their woe;
O'erhead the fatal stroke is pending,
Beneath the blow I see them bending;
Their sprites 'twixt death and life are wending.
Do bid adieu to all below!

Poor wretch, accursed by heaven's decree,
How canst thou loit'ring lie,
Or thy poor childrens' mis'ry see,
Or hear their melting cry?
Look to the tenants of the wood,
How they provide their young with food;
See how the little songsters sweet
Supply their nestlings weak with meat;
Keen as the knave in quest of gold
The fox breaks through the high sheepfold,
And drags the weak defenceless lamb,
Nor minds the bleatings of the dam;
And bears away
His hapless prey
At risk of life,
And constant strife
Of vengeful shepherds, leagued to be his death
So long as he or they draw breath.

Unmindful quite of feeble age,
Provision none he makes
For it—though famine madly rage,
'Gainst which all mortals else engage,—
The combat he forsakes.

Beside the stream he listless lies,
Pursuing the uncertain prize
That sports within the flood;
Thus doth he more enjoyment find,
To his ignoble erring mind,
Than kings or royal blood.

Though oft he feels his fav'rite joy
Affords but little gain,
Yet such delusions him decoy,
To part with which would quite destroy
His bliss—and prove his bane.

Thus let him judge, thus judge he will,
Till death his fireless bosom chill,
And sweep him from the face of earth,
While life laments she gave him birth.

III.

Full many live without an aim;
But many views young Mopus had,
Still searching for the path to fame,
Yet missing which still made him sad.

Not like the son of sloth was he,
Who on the field of ease did hover;
Mopus of indolence was free,
But yet he was a fickle rover.

In hopeful youth he thought to gain
Wealth, fame, and popular applause,
By Poetry in many a strain;
And well he knew all music's laws.

Soon did he find the heedless world
Untouched by his mellow lyre;
Then he, to disappointment hurl'd,
No more would court the Muse's fire.

To Painting next he did betake
Himself—for nature charm'd his soul;
Gay fancy's arts could he forsake?
Ah no! she ruled without control.

But what avail'd his skill in this,
When all his gain was empty praise?
Despairing now to find out bliss
He dropp'd his pencil like his lays.

How many in this world would shine,
And drown all others with their glare,
Who are unheeded, left to whine
Through life in hopeless black despair?

Of these, young Mopus would have met
This fate severely, much I ween,
Had not kind heaven with love beset
His track, and rightly it beseen.

Disconsolate, he roam'd alone
By yonder smooth reed-border'd Lake:
In disappointment's wailing tone,
To vent his grief, he thus outspake.

IV.

To reach Fame's bright realm every effort has fail'd me;
To grasp Riches' coffer no more will I try;
Come, black-robed Despair, I reluctant must hail thee;
By Hope quite forsaken, I fear not to die.
Thou bright flash of heaven, oh! in pity destroy me;
Thou false ignis fatuus, to ruin decoy me;
For life's snare-allurements serve only to cloy me,
And grave-like oblivion alone I espy.

Oh! had I, like some exiled hermit, but wander'd
Aloof from the world, ere the world I had known;
And on nature, far, far from ambition, had ponder'd,
I had found sweet contentment, and found it alone.
But teased, harass'd, criticised, vex'd, and forsaken;
Oh! that in the dawn of life death had me taken;
Remembrance, oh! rise not, my woes to awaken;
And sleep, cruel memory, I charge thee anon.

V.

Thus Mopus mourn'd his hapless fate,
And sole his mis'ry did relate,
While, flashing through the sable sky,
The barbed lightning bright did fly:
And, while the gleaming welkin shone,
Deep thunder struck her hollow tone.
Harsh scream'd the plover in the brake,
Loud yell'd the wild-duck on the lake,
Keen blew the wind, thick drove the rain
Across the dreary midnight plain.

The yellow moon, now rising slow,
Her slanting beam did cheering throw
Upon the grim tower's mould'ring wall,
To wake the night-owl's dreary call,
Who, from her ivy-haunt, did wail,
Harsh as could mortal ear assail.
Meanwhile did Mopus, musing wide,
Resolve on coward suicide;
Thought this last exit he would take,
To plunge into th' engulphing Lake:
When, quick, to his astonish'd sight,
Had vanish'd all the shades of night;
The dull owl dropp'd her dreary lay,
And mute was, as at noon of day;
The plover and the wild-duck harsh
Scream'd neither from the brake nor marsh;
The wind slept in her airy bed;
Sheer from the plain the rain had fled;
Far o'er the wide horizon's bound,
Was spent the thunder's blust'ring sound;
And from the sight, by tempest driven,
Fast fled the death-fraught bolt of heaven:
He rapt was from the former scene
To one of glitt'ring, dazzling sheen.

VI.

Upon a beauteous, sunny hill—
Whose verdure like the Jasper shone,
Round which did flow a limpid rill,
Where dews ambrosial sweet distil—
A Temple stood of onyx-stone.

The path which led up to the gate
Was deck'd with many a comely flower,
By nature form'd to recreate;
Fair amaranth and flav'rous date
Wove many an aromatic bower.

The portal was a diamond bright,
More lucid than the purest spring;
Grandeur and symmetry unite
To strike the eye, the mind delight,
With admiration's sweetest string.

This was calm Wisdom's temple grand,
Possess'd from immemorial time;
The Virtues form'd a dulcet band,
And thus to Mopus, hand in hand,
Their invitation sung sublime.

VII.

Come, wayworn stranger, come, repose;
Life's thorns elude, and pull the rose
Which in fair Wisdom's garden grows,
Even love and immortality.

For vice, the syren, to her bower
Thee lures, thy spirit to devour;
So, fly from her enchanting power,
And shun her woeful destiny.

Ascend to Wisdom's palace fair,
And breathe the pure immortal air,
Where squallid want nor sordid care
Ne'er dim the lamp of liberty.

To that saturnian bless'd abode
Arise, trip o'er the roscid road,
Where few 'mong mortals ever trod,
Or felt truth's thrilling ecstasy.

No longer on hell's brink delay;
Time's race is short; haste! come away!
We'll show the path to endless day,
In th' realm of long eternity.

VIII.

This sung—they led him to the gate,
Where Sapientia did await
To hail his wilder'd guest;
Sage was his look, and grave his mien,
His hoar-beard kiss'd the flowery green,
While, bowing with inviting look,
Young Mopus by the hand he took,
And thus him short address'd.

IX.

Fame-hunting stranger, thou hast stray'd
Far from the path which leads to joy;
By error's glare thou wast betray'd,
It sought thy peace still to destroy.

I wrench'd thee from the grasp of death,
While pendant hung the fatal blow;
And, ere the prowler stop thy breath,
The way to happiness thee show.

My mansion's postern enter then,
Where thou shalt see things hid before;
Foolish they seem to heedless men,
Who only short-lived joys adore.

Few, few are favour'd with the view,
Although presented unto all!
This riddle's not more strange than true—
Be pleased to walk into the hall.

X.

Before the Sage young Mopus lay
Low, prostrate on the ground;
But when the Seer said, “Come away,”
Gave him his hand, and show'd the way,
He obey'd the inviting sound.

He led him to the splendid hall,
Which was with tap'stry cover'd all;
At the farther end a curtain flow'd,
That rich with gold enamel glow'd,
Which, by the Sire's desire, was furl'd,
And show'd the follies of the world.

XI.

The hubbub of the fool-like crowd
Had such a strange fantastic look,
That Mopus burst to laughter loud,
Nor could the sight demurely brook.

Emperors, kings, princes, and lords,
Ran, eager, grasping chaff and straws;
And warrior's mad, with blood-stain'd swords,
Roared out, “revenge! for broken laws.”

Some stray'd, wrapp'd up in musing deep,
Beside the lone sequester'd stream;
Some grasp'd the wind, as it did sweep
Across the flower-bespangled green.

Others, remote, upon the moor
The wild fire chase through dense and rare;
The meteor's flash some to secure
With madlike bounds rise in the air.

Swift, ardent, ran a countless rout
To reach rich Mammon's fleeting dome;
While “ever and anon” they shout,
“Kind Father take us to thy home!”

And, while this strange maniac scene
Did show that madness reign'd in man,
The Sage, with grave commanding mein,
Its explanation thus began.

XII.

Let laughter leave thy youthful face,
Discard the comical grimace;
The prospect open'd to your view
Is comic, but 'tis solemn too.
So I demand your best attention,
To what concerning it I mention.

Know, then, soon after life began,
Down from his rectitude fell man,
And on his hapless offspring hurl'd
The plagues and follies of the world.
Burning with envy, pride, and want,
On wealth they leer, with eye aslant;
And bound o'er justice, reason, law,
To catch a feather or a straw.
What's wealth, though gain'd at such expense?
The surplusage of competence!
And what is fame, that phantom fair?
Nor more nor less than empty air!
Titles! their owners only shame,
Who boast upon a vague nickname;
For no high-sounding appellation
Can raise man higher than his station:
Virtue alone deserves our praise,
And virtuous man should wear the bays.
Observe yon glory-hunting race,
Through dense and rare, the spectre chase;
Who, rather than their object lose,
Would death with all its horrors choose:

The orphan's cry, the widow's tears,
In vain assail their ruthless ears;
Wan labour do they eye with scorn,
From every earthly pleasure torn,
And poor low-stooping service spurn
Sheer from their door, ne'er to return.

Oh tyranny! thou curse on earth,
Pride and oppression gave thee birth;
Built on injustice and on power
Thus hast thou raised thy lofty tower,
Whose pinnacles have reach'd the skies,
And dazzle the beholders' eyes.
Thus Monarchy, with Papal sway,
Uninterrupted, lolls away;
While, to support its pomp and pride,
Through hardship, groans the world beside.
Yet let not this disturb thy rest—
Wherever virtue is, 'tis bless'd;
Calm, sweet, serene, life glides away
With him who walks in virtue's way;
Suns never scorch, frosts never freeze
Him who doth God and nature please;
Far more transporting joy he feels
Than he who in debauch'ry reels.
The warrior, fired with thirst of fame,
Lays cities waste to gain a name;
Depopulates whole countries wide
To gratify his damned pride;
And yet, black fiend! throughout the nation
Proclaims, 'tis all self-preservation!
And his vile colleague, brother cheat,
To keep his privy council seat,
Doth, echo-like, the theme repeat.
These keep the world in close turmoil,
Still stirring up some novel broil;
So great for wealth and power their lust is,
That stern oppression's styled bland justice.

Some stray in rural solitude,
And seek for pleasure in the wood;
Oft do they linger thus away
Full many a precious golden day,

And ne'er the coy phantasma find;
If home they come, she's left behind:
Error on back of error lights,
And all their baseless prospects blights.

Those vain air catchers are the race
'Mongst whom thou didst commence thy chase;
The object which thou hadst in view
Was as vague, and elusive too,
As what those dreamers now pursue.
Where is the prize? they have it not,
Though deem'd within their fist close shut.
But, open—they have gain'd no more
Than what they did possess before.
Thus didst thou in delusion rove
Within the Muses' fairy grove,
And in this Eden thought'st to dwell
Till trial broke the magic spell:
Then all around was wrapp'd in gloom;
Wide yawn'd the black untimely tomb;
No face appear'd but that of death,
With visage stern, to end thy breath.
I then, in pity and in love,
Did interpose, once more to prove
Thee: but this trial is the last.

Hold virtue then, and hold it fast:
Unmindful of the when or where,
Ne'er follow fancy's meteor glare;
Nor after glory cast thine eyes,
Which doth above thy limits rise;
Nor yet the course unduly hold
Which leads to Mammon's fane of gold.
Love virtue only—that is wealth;
Sweet nature's law—for that is health;
Search for true knowledge—that is grandeur
Which far outshines all earthly splendour:
And when grim death at last appears,
When from their orbits drop the spheres,
When rings the far-heard trump of doom,
To wake the tenants of the tomb,
When, tow'ring in th' effulgent sky,
God's judgment throne's erected high,

When trembling sinners fly the sight,
And try in vain to shun the light,—
The terror of these objects shall
Thee neither frighten nor appal;
God shall declare then, from above,
That he doth only virtue love.
And as the man is—is his sentence:
If bad, what signifies repentance;
If bad, kind Hope is fled for ever—
One ray of her he shall have never:
Consign'd to everlasting pain,
All retrospection then is vain,
Where injured justice, to and fro,
Doth haunt the dreary realms of woe.

Thy conduct from this sight improve,
Go cultivate the virtue love;
True love has eyes, true love has ears,
True love has both her hopes and fears;
Eyes, to behold a brother's need;
Ears, which no ill report can feed;
Hopes, that the best account is true;
And fears, least any want their due.
Then back to earth, reform thy plan,
And act the humble part of man;
With that, thou need'st no other guide—
For misery centres all in pride.

XIII.

Though loth to leave the reverend Sire,
Yet, bowing, at his high desire
He left the spacious hall;
In youthful bloom, before the door,
His guardians, whom he left before,
In readiness were all,
To guide him off their hallow'd field,
With complimental air,
Stern virtue's weapons now to wield,
With all judicious care.

Deep heartfelt sighs his bosom swell,
To bid these blooming nymphs farewell,
Perhaps to meet no more;

But, having reach'd the destined bound,
With sweet adieu they all wheel'd round,
Their duty being o'er.

Now sole, young Mopus sped his way,
Through fields, he knew not where;
When soon a damsel, brisk and gay,
Approach'd with cheerful air.

With modest, sly, alluring mein,
She tried, by her grand lust'rous sheen,
To wile him to her bower;
But by that very instant came
Self-love, who told her grove was fame,
And that her wealth was power;
And that the harlot had beguiled
Full many a stranger there,
But oft her trappings he had foil'd,
When listen'd to with care.

When thus detected, off she sped,
Quick from her look the lustre fled,
And all her bloom decay'd;
By Self-love thus the youth, set free
From such deluding company,
Straight down the vale now stray'd.
A humble cottage stood upon
The flower-bestuded vale,
Where neither pomp nor grandeur shone;
This was Contentment's dale.

XIV.

Beside a limpid purling stream—
Which murm'ring on did play,
And 'neath the blazing noontide beam
With windings fair did stray—
An aged shepherd, musing deep,
Lay 'neath a birken shade;
While frisking lambs and fleecy sheep
Browsed on the flowery glade.

His look sedate, his hoary brow,
Bespoke him good and sage,
And that he had, long, long ere now,
Withstood fell passion's rage.

And, as the youth was passing by,
The complimental swain
Arose, and thus, with placid eye,
The youth did entertain.

XV.

Sobriety.
Stay, O stranger, young and mild,
Tarry on this flowery wild;
See, the sun is wearing low,
From our cottage do not go
Till again the rosy morn
Sky, and fields, and woods adorn;
So, till peep of blithesome day,
Deign, young stranger, here to stay.

Mopus.
Corteous Father, hoary Sire,
Much thy kindness I admire;
Sweet, inviting is your seat,
Sure 'tis contentment's bless'd retreat:
But too long I've been away,
So I can't much longer stay;
Friends will think I've cross'd the bourne
Whence I never shall return:
Yet your converse, Sage, to hear,
I shall give attentive ear.

Sobriety.
Since instruction thou wilt take,
It I'll tender for thy sake.
Youth's beset with many snares
Which may lure him unawares;
It behoves him much to guard
Fickle fancy's lying card;
And to weigh each step in life,
For there gins and traps are rife;
There is neither rank nor station,
Post, nor place, nor occupation,
But is fraught with trials fell,
Fit to drag the soul to hell.
If not conquer'd face to face,
And driven from the combat place,

This truth believe, I've found it so,
From sage experience it doth flow.

Mopus.
True, kind Sire! for every part
Darts conviction on the heart:
Vice I've found a liar deep,
Who all bounds and law would leap,
His vile purpose to attain;
And his adamantine chain
Binds with unsubduing power,
While the shafts of justice shower
'Round him while in this condition,
And fix him down in black perdition.

Sobriety.

Right thou art: and may the view
Of the traitor guide thee through
Life's important briary maze,
Free from all his hard assays.
Never let him have a hearing,
Though he seem e'er so endearing:
Hear but his tale, he'll thee deceive;
The devil's dialogue ruin'd Eve:
But shun the first insinuation,
Then proof thoul't stand 'gainst all temptation.

And, as all night thou wilt not stay,
I pray God speed thee on thy way:
Keep virtue's path, which leads to rest;
Her path is safest, and 'tis best.

Mopus.
Thanks, master of this verdant vale,
Thanks for thy virtue-cheering tale;
And as the sun wanes low away,
And night draws on, I cannot stay.

XVI.

Short way he from the Sire was gone
When all this scene was changed anon;
Instead of verdant fields and groves,
Of winding dales and dark alcoves,

This golden landscape midnight brake,
And show'd the dark sedge-skirted lake.
Downcast and dull young Mopus stood,
As in his wonted wretched mood;
But, such effect had wrought the vision,
He chid his conduct with derision:
Nor longer tarried there alone,
Nor mourn'd his lot with bitter tone,
But suddenly he homeward sped,
Reflecting on the life he'd led;
Resolved upon a future plan—
To act the noble part of man.
Vice now he doth indignant spurn,
A neighbour's fall doth make him mourn,
True love pervades through every act,
And follows bold industry's track;
He listens to misfortune's plaint,
And 's both philosopher and saint.

XVII.

Oh, Industry! great source of wealth,
I praise thy potent power;
Thou string'st the nerves to truest health,
And dost fell want devour.

Although thou didst originate
From Eden's fatal curse,
Thou canst discard infringing hate,
If raised by empty purse.

I see thee early on the lawn,
When all in sleep are still;
Thou meet'st the sun, at first of dawn,
With pleasure and good will.

By thee all earthly good we have
Which lies in labour's power,
And by thy toil-worn hand receive
Earth's unprolific dower.

The slothful sluggard I decry,
And sloven, vilely clad;
Gay diligence I fondly eye;
At cleanliness I'm glad.

The fickle dreamer never can
Succeed in legal gain;
He ever shifting is his plan
At each imagined pain.

A mopus once young Mopus was,
But is no mopus now;
He's guided by discretion's laws,
And honour decks his brow.

The Missionary's Death.

Far in Caffraria's wilds remote,
Where solar winds, like lightning hot,
And burning heats parch up the plain,
God's servant stray'd, nor stray'd in vain.
His only aim was to convey
The gospel's sound to those who lay
Close shrouded by sin's opaque screen,
That hides heaven's bright angelic scene.
For this he rode the surging deep,
For this he climb'd the towering steep,
For this he roam'd the arid plain,
And suffer'd thirst and hunger's pain.
Impell'd, protected, by that power
Which shields in danger's darkest hour,
The cross's standard he unfurl'd
In that dark region of the world
Where terror fills the savage throne,
Beneath the ardent torrid zone;
And to that standard closely clung
The sable converts, old and young,
Who bless'd the kind, propitious hand
Which bore him to their barb'rous land.
The harp of Zion here he strung,
Where torture's voice erewhile had rung;
And furious ferity gave place
To soothing love's alluring grace;
Grim Paganism, in vengeance hot,
Fled back to regions more remote.

But trouble's dire pestif'rous breath
Came on, portending sudden death;

Consumption rapid seized his blood,
And tainted all the vital flood.
The pallid cheek and languid eye
Bespoke his dissolution nigh;
Yet, while he felt the stinging dart,
Religion soothed the burning smart.

With faces all with tears bedew'd
His mourning converts round him stood,
Grieved as the prophet's sons, when, far,
Elijah rode the flaming car.
No more they join his prayers sincere,
No more his counsels sage they hear,
No more they list him swell the song
Of praise that doth to God belong!
But ere he drew his latest breath,
And ere he closed his eyes in death,
While every heart with sorrow bled,
His blessing thus he on them shed:—

“My race on earth is almost run,
The prize of warfare's almost won;
Fast, fast the mission'd angel flies
To seize my tongue, and seal my eyes,
And waft me to the realms of light,
Unvisited by sable night.
O could my tongue the joys declare
Which faith confirms to centre there!
Or the efflux divine impart
Which now pervades my trembling heart,
'Twould captivate the vilest soul
That doth in riot's circle roll.
O may the God of boundless love
Deign, from his radiant throne above,
To cast on you his watchful eye,
And aid you when temptation's nigh!
O may my labours not prove vain
On Afric's far secluded plain;
To 'lumine which, o'er sea and land,
I've sped at God's divine command.
Though ofttimes danger did increase,
I'm here allow'd to die in peace.”

“Oft have I told you what can smooth
Life's rugged path, and trouble soothe;

Oft have I taught the power of faith,
Which cheers through life, and welcomes death;
And now, to show I've been sincere—
Death comes—I hail him without fear:
He comes to ope the gate of heaven,
And cares and toils away are driven.
I go, triumphant praise to swell!
May God attend you all: farewell!
Lord Jesus, in thy arms of love,
Me welcome to the world above.

Afresh the streams of sorrow flow
In more depressed tones of woe!
More keenly through each heart doth thrill
Grief's piercing throe, life's stream to chill,
As, round their father's drear death-bed,
They sigh for pleasures ever fled—
His counsels sweet, his lessons sage,
Drawn from the heaven-inspired page.

Oh how unlike the grief-veil'd joy
That beams from the dissembling eye
Of Europe's sons, whose bosoms bound
To hear their sires' reversion sound!
With downcast look now, see them tread
The pathway with the mighty dead,
Who did their souls from bondage save
When hung o'er deep destruction's grave.
No feigning-weeping eye was there,
While on the shrouded corpse they bear;
No breast but heaved grief's deepest sigh
While round his grave they thronged nigh;
No soul but render'd thanks to heaven
That to them such a guide was given,
As drearily they homeward stray'd
From burying of their sacred dead.

EPITAPH.

Like some fair star, unseen by human eye,
That doth on wide creation's outskirts burn,
Here God's true servant doth sequester'd lie,
To slumber in the dark oblivious urn;
Yet comes the day when he shall mount on high,
A star conspicuous in the spiritual sky.

Britain's-Decline.

While dire distress sends forth her melting cry,
And humid pity lends a watchful ear
Unto her woe; O Muse, let not thy voice
Remain unheard, while ebon gloom surrounds
Once splendent Albion, known to realms afar;
But join the sad, the universal wail,
Pour'd by her sons and daughters, torn with grief,
And say, if thou canst tell, what forged the bolt,
That, thrown from ruin's deadly mortar, sends
Terrific havoc round our sea-girt isle.
Ah me! she little thought thus low to sink
In the pernicious mire of infamy,
When on the acme of the tow'ring arch
Of mundane glory she triumphant sat,
While at her feet the sceptred kings of realms
Obsequious crouch'd, as to divinity.

Perfidious pride! 'twas thou who laidst the base
Of Britain's ruin: thy delusive glare
Waved, like enchantment, on her dazzled sight
The ignis-fatuus of pomp and power,
Which hath decoy'd her into that quagmire
From which to free her every art is vain.
Jealous of honour, she disdain'd to brook
The slightest speck of insult unrepaid,
But, with infuriate wrath, hurl'd headlong down
The bolt of retribution on the heads
Of those whom all the world beside would deem
The unoffending objects of her ire.
Hence war on war incessant was her fate;
Hence debt contracted ne'er to be repaid;
Hence fields of carnage, which in sackcloth clad
Widows and orphans, while the frequent tear
Rolls o'er th' untimely pallid cheek of woe:
But was she ne'er th' aggressor in the cause
Which lighted up the horrid torch of war,
Whence countless unoffending victims bled?
Let those who dwell in India's realms reply,
Whose sires have felt the bosom-rending throe
For sacked cities and for plunder'd stores,

And for a country wrench'd by legal force
Out of their hands, which they by right had held,
Time immemorial, from the hand of heaven.
List Afric's sons, while they, responsive, tell
What tempted first the bulwark of the waves
From Britain's shores to hapless Negroland?
Alas! not they e'er did infest our trade,
By predatory inroad o'er the deep,
In light canoe, incompetent for war;
Nor e'er assay'd, wide o'er th' Atlantic waves,
With dire armada, to invade our shores:
Yet have Britannia's sons, with guileful lure,
Spread their broad flags, inscribed to liberty,
Over the den whence slav'ry's clanging chain
Invokes the awful curse decreed by heaven
For those who fellow-sympathy debar.

“Sell human souls not,” God and reason cry,
In sounds so loud that none can ever claim
Exemption from the law through ignorance:
But thou hast sold, oh Britain! and hast bought
The sons and daughters of our general sire;
And canst thou then escape for aye the stroke
Of retribution, though delay'd for long?
No! heaven, vindictive, waves above thy head
The flaming brand of vengeance, to bestow
To stern-eyed Justice what by right is his.
So tyranny awhile may keep his place,
But sink at last into forlorn disgrace.

Epistle to I. Macpherson.

Dear Sir,

Cauld Boreas now, in's icy car,
Frae Scotia's hills hath fled afar,
To dwell beneath the north pole star
The leelang simmer,
Whare, sax lang months, the sun scarce daur
Gie ae blithe glimmer.

Ance mair the cheerie spring's return
Draws nature frae her annual urn,

And snawdraps, by ilk brae and burn,
Wi' gowans smile,
And birds, wha lang did ourie mourn,
Now sing the while.

The bumbees, wha lang lay incog,
Now bizz out frae their bykes o' fog;
The peasweeps cry, by brae and bog,
Harsh, loud, and shrill;
And whistlin' ploughmen lab'rin' jog
On plain and hill.

And now, my Muse, frae fetters freed,
Cries, “Haste and tune the aiten reed;
Come, mount winged Pegasus wi' speed,
An tak' the lift;
Through fancy's regions drive the steed,
That precious gift.”

Patience, (quoth I,) my leesome lady!
For fancy's realms I'm no yet ready;
In keepin' vows folk should be steady
To frien' or fae;
Sae, Pegasus, by me ill feed aye,
In's sta' maun stay.

Then, Sir, to you I dont intend
A fancy-spun dreigh tale to send,
But twa-three lines, clean aff-loof penn'd,
O' rustic measure,
In hopes you'll them, my youthfu' friend,
Receive with pleasure.

The boist'rous tide o' trade ye've ta'en,
That rough and aft disastrous main,
Where thousands lose and thousands gain,
As fortune throws
Frae her dice-box, their bliss or bane,
Their joys or woes.

Although guid counsel's aft defeated,
And perseverance's frequent cheated,
And deeds o' hainin', still repeated,
We find to fail,
Yet wealth's strange maze they'll likely meet it,
If aught avail.

Ye're now in youdith's sunny morn,
Where fancy aft is joyous borne
On hope's sweet wing, and dreads nae thorn
Frae life's fair rose;
Till, quick, the pullin' hand is torn,
And blood out flows.

Then carefu' mark ilk dyvour loun
That doth infest the kintra toun:
They promise fair; but when the soun'
O' cravin's heard
They steek the winnock—flee the toun
Like ony bird.

Nae trust gi'e them wha dress owre grand aye;
Wha shine at balls, and play the dandy;
Wha blithely look, although at hand be
Their affidavit
O' poverty: chaps wha should, handy,
Get hangie's gravit.

Oh what a scene o' anxious strife
Is this short span—the human life!
Where cares, and wants, and woes are rife,
To gall and cloy;
Baith wi' and eke without a wife—
That boasted joy.

Yet why repine, while youth's fair rose
Upon the cheek its blossom shows,
And hope within the bosom glows,
And brows are brent?
Let's sing a sang owre Athole-brose,
And be content.

Frae my rude heap o' useless lumber
Twa sangs or three I've roused frae slumber,
And sent, your pouch-bouk to encumber;
Sae pardon that;
And 'mang your friends aye mind to number,
Yours,
Willie Watt.

SONGS.

ALL HAIL, CALEDONIA.

All hail, Caledonia, the birth place of bravery,
Whose children have ever breath'd freedom's pure air,
Thy sons are like lions, the sworn foes of slavery,
Thy daughters like rose-buds, for beauty so rare.
The patriot's fire in each bosom is glowing,
The soul of his sire through each son's blood is flowing,
While Fame's sacred trumpet fresh paeans is blowing,
To tell the whole world what Scotch valour can dare:
Such prowess the Alma's steep summits display'd,
When storm'd by the force of the Highland Brigade.

When Rome pour'd her legions of mail-cover'd champions,
To tear from our fathers their freedom so dear,
In triumph they march'd till they came to the Grampians,
And there a stern foe to their front did appear;
Each mountain-top blazed with its war-fire of heather,
In myriads from hill and glen quick they did gather,
And shoulder to shoulder rush'd forward together,
And stem'd with sheer power the invader's career;
Thus Russia's dense columns roll'd back, sore dismay'd,
Before the dread fire of the Highland Brigade.

But, ah! a dire tempest sweeps over the Highlands,
Expelling her children from pleasure and home,
And spreads desolation o'er all her sweet islands,
Exiling her sons o'er the wide world to roam.
No voice of the milkmaid is heard singing cheery,
No sound of the bagpipe is heard thrilling clearly;
But solitude reigns o'er her empire so dreary,
In league with the howl of the sea's dashing foam:
Britannia may yet see kilt, bonnet, and plaid;
She'll look all in vain for the Highland Brigade.

THE GLORIOUS BARD OF KYLE.

[_]

AIR.—“There's nae luck about the House.”

Fair Scotia, frae her mountain throne,
Looks down, wi' smiling e'e,
To see her children every one
In harmony agree;
While countless thousands onward move,
In ecstacy divine,
To show'r their wreaths of warmest love
On Burns's hallow'd shrine.

CHORUS.

Then swell his praise, in lofty lays,
Throughout our happy isle,
For Scotia's boast, frae coast to coast,
Is the glorious Bard of Kyle.

His was the independent soul,
The warm and manly heart,
To spurn the haughty tyrant's scowl,
Or brave misfortune's smart;
His magic lays transcendent blaze
'Mid the poetic throng;
Sic peerless fire flows from his lyre
As hails him king of song.

He sang the peasant's happy cot,
The lover's joys and woes;
The patriot's flame, wi' loud acclaim,
He nobly did disclose;
Hypocrisy oft felt his lash,
Wi' downcast tearfu' e'e,
While round his brilliant wit did flash
Wi' comic mirth and glee.

Though mony shine wi' twinkling light,
Or flash wi' comet glare,
Then dimly blink through darksome night,
Or vanish evermair;
Yet Burns's name, and Burns's fame,
Beam like the blazing sun,
And down the tide of time will glide
Till her last sands are run.

Composed for the general Anniversary of Burns' Hundredth Birth-day, 25th January, 1859—three months before Mr. Watt's death.

THE WARRIOR'S WELCOME.

[_]

TUNE,—“Wae's my heart that we should sunder.”

Bravest of the sons of war,
Rest thee from the toil of fighting,
Till the yellow morning star
From the east sky gleams delighting.
Glorious hath thy struggle been,
'Mid the thunder of the battle,
When the armour, glitt'ring sheen,
Fill'd the air with direful rattle.

Dreary o'er the foughten field
Howls the wolf 'mong blood and slaughter,
Where conflicting weapons reel'd,
Pouring blood like streams of water.
Banish from thine eye the tear,
Certain sign of inward sorrow,
Welcome art thou to dwell here,
'Midst of safety, till the morrow.

Fear no coming of the foe,
Fear no traitor standing round thee,
Though thy pulse beats faintly low,
Gold could not induce to wound thee.
For thy fate no child need weep,
For thy fate no mother languish;
Strengthen'd by refreshing sleep,
Thou shalt wake aloof from anguish.

Dreams of pleasure charm thy soul,
Sweet presiding o'er thy slumber;
While time's chariot wheels swift roll,
May no incubus thee cumber.
But the soothing scenes of peace,
Home, and friends, and festive gladness,
Thee from war's fatigues release,
Thee estrange from themes of sadness.

THE BATTLE OF VITTORIA.

[_]

AIR,—“Whistle o'er the lave o't.”

On famed Vittoria's gory height,
Ere shades proclaim'd th' approach of night,
The sulph'rous tube and sabre bright
Swept thousands to eternity.

The marshall'd ranks, in bright array,
Stood glittering in the blaze of day;
While drums and trumpets loud did bray
Along the azure canopy.

As from the lightning's ebon shrine
The thunder bursts with voice sublime,
So cannons roar and armours chime
In contest for the mastery.

Now dire confusion clouds the field,
With stubborn brows their swords they wield,
Till Gallia's sons are forced to yield
To British strength and bravery.

Here lies, defaced by blood and scars,
The hero old, and skill'd in wars,
(Who lived a votary to Mars,)
Lamenting his hard destiny.

There wreathes on the ensanguined plain
The soldier young, in horrid pain,
In life's gay morn untimely ta'en
By fate's delusive treachery.

Beneath the willow's blood-stain'd leaf
Lies, parch'd with thirst, the wounded chief,
And not a hand to lend relief,
Or soothe his grevious misery:

The horseman, 'neath his hapless steed,
In anguish fell doth groaning bleed;
Aloof from help, in time of need,
He dies at point of victory:

When loud the brazen trump of fame
Resounds for Wellington and Graham,
Who've gain'd themselves a deathless name,
While lasts the page of history.

THE BELGIAN ACCOUNT OF THE BATTLE OF FLEURUS.

WRITTEN FROM A BRUSSELS GAZETTE.

[_]

TUNE,—“Locheroch-side.”

Bright shone the sun with golden glow
To gild the Sambre's limpid flow,
When up arose the Gallic foe,
Indignant, to devour us.
Their columns deep, protracted far,
Attired in all the garb of war,
Presaged that they, in triumph's car,
Would course the plains of Fleurus.

But Blucher, with his daring band,
Prepared the rebels to withstand;
His steady mien and order grand
Of freedom did assure us.
The Prussian black flag floated high,
And valour beam'd from every eye;
Each vow'd he'd conquer, else he'd die
Upon the field of Fleurus.

The drum's shrill beat, the bugle's twang,
The cannon's roar, the sabre's clang,
With fatal grape-shot, rudely rang:
My heart could scarce endure this.
From every side, across the vale,
Swept showers of shot like driving hail,
And swords struck fire from helm and mail,
That dreadful day, on Fleurus.

The British lion's rampant roar
Loud swell'd along the Sambre's shore;
He thousands bathed in reeking gore,
From bondage to secure us.
It was the gallant Scotch brigade
Which there such deeds of fame display'd;
Whose foes did quick recoil, dismay'd,
Or slept in death on Fleurus.

Loud rang the Highland pibroch's swell,
To kindle rage, and fear dispel,
And drown the wounded's dying yell,—
To them a wretched cure this.

The cause is lost, the rebels fly,
The swords and bay'nets, waving high,
Fast sweep them down, 'mong fields of rye,
Upon the field of Fleurus.

“Revenge, revenge!” the Prussians roar,
“For injured rights in days of yore;
Let pity, though she keen implore,
From vengeance ne'er allure us.”
But darkness frown'd upon the plain,
When back the rebels fled amain,
And thousands, cold as ice, lay slain
Upon the field of Fleurus.

SONG.

[_]

AIR,—“The Caledonian Hunt's Delight.”

Flow softly, Calder, down thy glynns,
Where sighing lovers fondly meet,
While waving birks o'erhang thy linns,
Whence blackbirds trill their lays so sweet!

Thy verdant groves, thy cool alcoves,
Have shaded oft the sultry ray,
As, 'midst the vert, with love-charm'd heart,
With Anna I beguiled the day.

Hers was the look that snared the soul,
The voice that charm'd the tuneful ear;
From every swain the heart she stole,
That stray'd the banks of Calder near.

But, like the rose, that brightly blows
Full soon to wither wanly pale,
My Anna bloom'd to be entomb'd,
Ere prime of life, in yonder vale.

Oh say, ye swains, by Calder's side,
If ye have felt the burning throe?
Tell me if grief must still abide,
And still the tear of anguish flow?

No smiling ray of hope's fair day
Glides through the ever-deep'ning gloom;
The tearful eye and heaving sigh
Are mine, since Anna fills the tomb.

BAB AT THE BOWSTER.

Lassie, whare were ye yestreen,
Wi' touslet hair and drowsy een?
I trow ye've at the weddin' been,
And danced at “Bab at the Bowster.”

'Deed I was there, amang them a',
And sic a sicht I never saw
O' lads an lasses, dress'd sae braw,
A' dancin' “Bab at the Bowster.”

A' kinds o' dances, jigs, or reels,
Fandangoes, waltzes, or quadrilles,
There's nane can fire our lichtsome heels
Like Scotland's “Bab at the Bowster.”

The drowsy waltz but lulls to sleep
As owre the floor we slowly creep,
But joy comes wi' the fiddle's cheep
At the dance o' “Bab at the Bowster.”

'Tis aye the dance that bears the gree
At ony canty social spree;
Baith auld and young aye join wi' glee
To dance blithe “Bab at the Bowster.”

Had ye but seen the miller Hodge,
Wha came to kneel wi' the howdie Madge;
She strak in fun, but seem'd in rage,
To dance at “Bab at the Bowster.”

The carl held, the carlin drew,
Wi' loof upon her wrinkled mou';
Nane witness'd sic a hallabulloo
At the dance o' “Bab at the Bowster.”

The miller tint his wig i' the fray,
The howdie's braw mutch bord gaed 'stray,
And the rosy sun brought in the day,
Ere we ended “Bab at the Bowster.”

Sae ferlie nane whare I ha'e been,
Wi' touslet hair, and drowsy een,
Nae sleep I've got, nor bed ha'e seen,
Since I danced “Bab at the Bowster.”

The fiddle yet rings in my brain,
And want o' sleep's a weary pain,
But I wad thole a' owre again
To get dancin' “Bab at the Bowster.”

MERRILY DANCED THE QUAKER'S WIFE.

Merrily danced the Quaker's wife,
And merrily danced the Quaker;
She bought a gown, when at the town,
That gart a' the Friends forsake her;
For it was silk, o' sweet pea green,
Wi' velvet tartan bonnet,
And o'er her lovely brow serene
An Ostrich plume waved on it.

Merrily danced the Quaker's wife,
And merrily danced the Quaker;
The fiddler's e'e gart him tyne his key
When he look'd on the wife o' the Quaker.
The Quaker coost his snuff-brown coat
And braid-rimm'd hat i' the side room,
And sprang an flang at the Highland Fling,
Wi' his bonny wife and the bridegroom.

Merrily danced the Quaker's wife,
And merrily danced the Quaker;
He sat as close by the toddy bowl
As either the butcher or baker.
He quaff'd and danced till the cock did craw
Beside the miller and brewster,
And frae the bridal wad ne'er withdraw
Till ance he danced Bab at the Bowster.

Merrily danced the Quaker's wife,
Till the morning sun was glancin';
“My dear,” quo she, “put on your coat,
'Tis time now to end the dancin'.”
“My back and head nae mair I'll cleed,”
Quo' he, “in Quaker's garb now,
But I'll be dress'd as gay's the rest,
And never will thee nor thou you”

THE PEDLAR.

[_]

AIR,—“Come under my Plaidie.”

The pedlar ca'd in by the house o' Glenneuk,
When the fam'ly were by wi' the breakfast and beuk;
The lasses were caiming an' curling their hair,
To gang to the bridal o' Maggie M'Nair.
“Guid morn,” quo' the pedlar, fu' frank an' fu' free,
“Let's see wha this day will be hansel to me!
An' if an ill bargain she happen to mak',
I'll gie her mysel' an' the hale o' my pack.”

“Aha!” the guidwife cried, “gif I've ony skill,
I fear that would be makin' waur out o' ill;
My dochters wad, certes, o' wark be richt slack,
To trudge through the kintra and carry a pack.”
“Guidwife,” quo' the pedlar, “'tis only a joke,”
As he flang down his wallets to shaw them his stock;
When she saw his rich cargo, she ru'ed e'er she spak
Sae lightly o' either the pedlar or pack.

The lasses drew roun', wi' their gleg glancin' een,
To glow'r on his ware that might fitted a queen;
They wal'd an' they boucht satins, ribbons, and lace,
Till they raised mony lirks on the laird's niggard face.
His brooches and bracelets, wi' di'monds enrich'd,
They greent for, till baith hearts and een were bewitch'd;
But bonnie blate Nelly stood aye a bit back,
Stealin' looks at the pedlar—but ne'er min't the pack.

This lovely young lassie his fancy did move;
He saw that her blinks were the glances o' love:
A necklace he gied her, wi' pearlins beset,
Saying, “Wha kens but we twa will married be yet?”
The blush flush'd her cheek, and the tear fill'd her e'e;
She gaed out to the yaird, and sat down 'neath a tree,
When something within her aye silently spak—
“I could gang wi' this pedlar, and carry his pack.”

Her heart lap wi' joy ilka time he cam' roun',
Till he tauld her he'd taen a braw shop in the toun;
Then the rose left her cheeks, and her head licht did reel,
For she dreaded this wad be his hindmost fareweel.

“Look blithe, my dear lassie, your fears banish a',
Your parents may flyte, and your titties may jaw,
But they'll heartily rue yet, that e'er they jokes brack
Upon me, when the country I ranged wi' the pack.”

The auld wife kent noucht o' the secret ava,
Till ae day to the kirk she gaed vogie an' braw;
Her heart to her mouth lap, the sweat on her brak',
When she heard Nelly cry'd to the lad wi' the pack.
She sat wi' a face hafflins roasted wi' shame,
Syne awa at twal hours she gaed scourin' straught hame;
She min't na the text, nor a word the priest spak',
A' her thoughts were ta'en up wi' the pedlar and pack.

“What's wrang,” quo' the laird, “that ye're hame here sae soon?
The kail's no lang on! Is the day's service done?”
“Na, na,” quo' the kimmer, “I've got an affront
That for months yet to come will my bosom gar dunt!
That glaikit slut Nell, we have dautit sae weel,
Has now won us a pirn that will sair us to reel;
For a' we've wared on her, o' pound and o' plack,
She is thrice cry'd this day to yon chiel wi' the pack.”

“Od saffs!” sigh'd the laird, “gif she be sic a fool,
He sal get her as bare as the birk tree at Yule!
Whare is she, the slut? gif I could but her fin',
Fient haud me, gin I wadna reesil her skin!”
But Nelly foresaw what the upshot wad be,
Sae she gaed 'cross the Muir to a frien's house awee,
Whare a chaise-an-pair cam', an' whene'er daylight brak',
She set aff wi' the pedlar unfasht wi' the pack.

They were lawfully spliced by the Rev'rend J. P.
Whilk the hale kintra roun' in the Herald may see;
Now his big shop's weel stow'd, baith for bed an' for back,
That was started wi' ballads an' trumps in a pack.
He raise up in rank, and he raise up in fame,
And the title o' Bailie's affixed to his name;
Now the laird o' Glenneuk about naething will crack
Save the Bailie,—but ne'er hints a word o' the pack.

AULD JOHN PAUL.

[_]

AIR,—“The Campbells are Coming,”

Auld John Paul was nae lazy man,
And auld John Paul was nae crazy man;
Though his haffits were white, and his noddle was baul',
Yet a slee, funny joker, was auld John Paul.
Auld John Paul had a widower been
For towmonds, they said, about twal or threteen;
Yet it lap in his head—though I'm now turnin' aul',
I may yet get a help-meet, thinks auld John Paul.

Sae he daunnert down to Nanse M'Nee's,
Wha keepit the sign o' the gowd cross-keys;
A cantie widow, baith stout and hale,
Wha had saved a bit trifle by sellin' ale.
Sae he ca'd for a dram, and begoud to crack,
And syne about wedlock a joke he brake,
While the kimmer she leuch, and said, sooth, but ye'er baul';
Wad ye yet face the minister, auld John Paul?

The kintra says ye're a douse auld man,
But I really think, John, ye're a crouse auld man,
Wha yet wad splice wi' anither wife,
When ye've sprauchilt sae far up the hill o' life.
Ye hae routh to keep ony wife bien, John Paul,
I'm redd ye'se get ane at fifteen, John Paul;
To look on your spunk, it's new life to the saul—
You're the flower o' the clachan yoursel', John Paul!

Nae glaiget young jillet for me, quo' John;
Though I ha'e a billet for thee, quo' John;
Gin the smith ye'll discard, wi' his lang sooty beard,
Ye'se my siller get ilka bawbee, quo' John.
And nae mair wi' the souter ye'll fash, quo' John,
For he's drucken ilk plack o' his cash, quo' John;
And the miller's gane through a' his mailin, I trow,
And, forbye, he's a daft gomrel hash, quo' John.

But the beadle cam' in roarin' fou to Nanse,
Sayin', John Paul, what want ye now wi' Nanse?

Ye had better gae beek at your ain ingle cheek,
For I've offered mysel' afore you to Nanse.
It's a wonner to look at auld fools, John Paul,
Wha maun soon hurkel down 'mang the mools, John Paul;
Soon the divots will sward owre your head in my yaird,
Whan I've happit you up wi' my shools, John Paul.

Confound your ill-breedin', gae out, quo' Nanse,
Or the tangs I'se bring owre your lang snout, quo' Nanse,
Ye'll come in here to scaul', and to kick up a brawl!
Will ye e'er be a man like John Paul, quo' Nanse.
Sae the beadle did swagger out ragin' mad,
Misca'in the alewife for a' that was bad;
While the neebours assembled to witness the brawl,
Sayin' wha wad hae thought this o' auld John Paul?

We've a sad mishanter met, quo' John,
We'll the clachan's banter get, quo' John;
That bletherin' fool, wi' his shools, and his mools,
Will be, aiblins, the first to cry dool, quo' John.
But the clerk we can get in a blink, quo' John,
Wi' his paper, his pen, and his ink, quo' John;
And niest Sunday, I say, we'll cry thrice i' ae day,
And gie the hale billies a jink, quo' John.

Quo' Nanse, ye've my consent, John Paul,
To wed ye, I'm content, John Paul;
But first, let's get a man o' law,
To bin' the langest liver a'.
Content! quo' John, a bargain be't,
Come, gies your han' and say we're greet!
Rab Snap the contract soon will scrawl,
'Tween Nanse M'Nees and auld John Paul.

Sae they were cried, and buckled syne;
The weddin' was a special shine;
Saxscore o' neebours, young and aul',
Ate, drank, and danced wi' auld John Paul.
They ranted and sang till the day did daw',
Ere ane o' the guests thought o' gaun awa;
And the fiddler swore nane shook a suppler spaul
On the floor, the hale night, than did auld John Paul,

This song, and a number of those succeeding, of the same character, were written for and sung by the late Mr. James Livingston, well known throughout Scotland for his fine taste, and rich and racy humour, in this class of songs.

ELSPA ADAIR.

[_]

TUNE,—“The Hills o' Glenorchy.”

A pawky auld cummer wins in the Mill glen
Wham ilk body's heard o', but nane fully ken;
She's cosie, she's cosh, and she's bien butt and ben;
She has kists fu' o' claes, and has siller to ware;
But how she's sae rowthy, though howdie she be,
Lang puzzled ilk brain through the mystery to see,
Till the carlines o' sense did ilk ither agree
That Nick was in paction wi' Elspa Adair.

Now Elspa was thrifty the hale o' her life,
And to the laird's gamekeeper made a guid wife
For thirty lang years, without fam'ly or strife,
Till he left her a widow to mourn for him sair.
But though the protector o' paitricks and hares,
His conscience wad rack baith to set and lift snares;
And when he was tired o' his day's toilsome cares,
Awa' at the gloamin slade Elspa Adair.

She could hide four guid maukins aneath her brown cloak,
And meet wi' the cadger and sell aff her stock,
And lauch aff the scorn wi' a blithe knacky joke,
Wi' conscience unscathed, and wi' heart void o' care.
When ta'en aff to howdie, by nicht or by day,
She airted aye hame whare the wily girns lay;
The laird micht traverse ilka valley and brae,
But the feck o' his game lodged wi' Elspa Adair.

GRIZZIL GRANGER.

[_]

AIR,—“Clout the Caudron.”

Beyond the moss there lives a lass,
The flower o' a' this island,
Whase peerless smile each heart can wile
Frae Lowland lad or Highland.
Ye youths tak' tent, wha cross the bent,
Her look is certain danger,
Nane, wha e'er saw her, could withdraw
His heart frae Grizzil Granger.

She is the boast, the constant toast,
At every merry-meeting,
Though envy flings her vemon'd stings,
And hopeless love sits greeting.
The kirk's aye fou, in ilka pew,
Wi' denizen and stranger,
And een are crack'd, and necks are rack'd,
For views o' Grizzil Granger.

Her witching een and gracefu' mien
Set a' their nerves a-quakin';
A' day they reel on fancy's wheel,
A' nicht their heads are aching.
Or when, in scores, about the doors,
They quarrel through contention,
Till purple een are aften gien
To end the nicht's convention.

A' classes show the burnin' throe
O' love's tormentin' passion,
And 'squires and clowns crack ither's crowns,
Discarding fear and caution.
The lasses bite wi' spleen and spite,
(Hot scandal's their avenger,)
And taunt and jeer, wi' envious leer,
Sweet lovely Grizzil Granger.

Young Grizzil had a loving lad;
When they were bairns together,
They gather'd slaes amang the braes,
And berries 'mang the heather.
Though he had gane beyond the main,
Through Canada a ranger,
Yet still his mind did roam behind
Wi' bonny Grizzil Granger.

'Mid this turmoil and nightly broil
Her youthfu' love returned,
Whase omened name soon cooled the flame
That in ilk bosom burned.
The lowe o' youth soon beamed, forsooth,
On this long-absent stranger,
And now through life, he's got for wife
Young bonny Grizzil Granger.

KATE DARYMPLE.

[_]

AIR,—“Jinglin' Johnny.”

In a wee cot-house far across the muir,
Where peesweeps, plovers, and whaaps cry dreary,
There lived an auld maid for mony lang years,
Wham ne'er a wooer did e'er ca' dearie.
A lanely lass was Kate Darymple,
A thrifty quean was Kate Darymple;
Nae music, exceptin' the clear burnie's wimple,
Was heard round the dwellin' o' Kate Darymple.

Her face had a smack o' the gruesome and grim,
Whilk did frae the fash o' a' wooers defend her;
Her lang Roman nose nearly met wi' her chin,
That brang folk in min' o' the auld Witch o' Endor.
A weegle in her walk had Kate Darymple,
A sneevil in her talk had Kate Darymple;
And mony a cornelian and cairngorm pimple
Did bleeze on the dun face o' Kate Darymple.

She span tarry woo' the hale winter through,
For Kate ne'er was lazy, but eident and thrifty;
She wrought 'mang the peats, coil'd the hay, shore the corn,
And supported hersel' by her ain hard shift aye.
But ne'er a lover cam' to Kate Darymple,
For beauty and tocher wanted Kate Darymple;
Unheeded was the quean by baith gentle and simple,
A blank in the warld seem'd poor Kate Darymple.

But mony are the ups and the downs in life,
When the dice-box o' fate's jumbled a' tapsalteerie;
Sae Kate fell heiress to a friend's hale estate,
And nae langer for lovers had she cause to weary.
The Squire cam' a-wooing soon o' Kate Darymple,
The Priest, scrapin', bowin', fan' out Kate Darymple;
And on ilk wooer's face was seen love's smiling dimple,
And now she's nae mair Kate—but Miss Darymple.

Her auld currystool, that she used at her wheel,
Is flung by for the saft gilded sofa sae gaudy;
And now she's array'd in her silks and brocade,
And can brank now for ruffs and muffs wi' ony lady.

Still an unco fash to Kate Darymple,
Was dressing and party clash to Kate Darymple;
She thought a half-marow, bred in line mair simple,
Wad be a far fitter match for Kate Darymple.

She aftentimes thocht, when she dwelt by hersel',
She could wed Willie Speedyspool the sarkin weaver;
And now to the wabster she the secret did tell,
And for love or for int'rest, Will did kindly receive her.
He flang by his heddles soon for Kate Darymple,
He brunt a' his treddles doun for Kate Darymple;
Though his right e'e doth skellie, and his left leg doth limp ill,
He's wedded to, and bedded now wi' Kate Darymple.

SONG.

[_]

AIR,—“I ha'e laid a herrin' in saut.”

I ha'e cheese, and butter, and milk,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
I ha'e gowd to cleed ye in silk,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.

I ha'e a flock o' kye and sheep,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
Grazin' in glens, and on hillsides steep,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.

I ha'e bought a gaudy gowd ring,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
Should your finger fit sic a thing,
Then I wouldna come ony mair to woo.

I ha'e a heart that is loving and leal,
Lass, gin ye lo'e me tell me noo?
That feels nae joy like your comfort and weal,
But I canna come ilka day to woo.

Laddie, I ha'e listen'd you lang,
And think it time to tell ye noo;
I will follow whare'er ye gang,
Sae ye needna come ony mair to woo.

Your bonny ring on my finger I'll string,
A' for the love I bear to you;
I'll be your bride by the sweet burn side,
And ye'll ne'er rue the day ye cam to woo.

JEAN SAIPYSAPLES.

WRITTEN FOR MR. J. GALLACHER.

[_]

AIR,—“The Irish Washerwoman.”

Ye washer wives a', fasht wi' drouth in your thrapples,
Wha haunt spirit cellars mair than kirks or chapels,
Come list the adventures o' Jean Saipysaples,
When clasp'd in the clutches of stout Usquabae.
Ae bitter March day, when the sun was na shinin',
Jean gaed to the green, to her freathin' and synin',
Supplied wi' baith outward and inward warm linin'
To help her to warsel the toils o' the day.

She splashed, and she washed, till a' frothin' and sweetin',
And aye amang han's took the ither bit weetin;
She wrang them, and hang them to dry, aft repeatin'—
“Sair toil and sma' comfort's allotted to me!”
Then she edged her big boyn by the side o' the river,
Her warm, tartan mantle flang roun' her fu' clever,
And crap in the lown wi' her true Fail-me-never,
A bladder, neck-fou o' the best barley brie.

The drouth was na strong, and the claes lang o' dryin',
And Jean, sair confined, in her centry-box lyin';
Forby, toiled and cauld, there is sure na denyin',
That she had strong claims on the wee, pithy drap.
Wi' toilin', and starvin', and watchin', and drinkin',
Some wad hae been sleepin' when Jean was but winkin';
But 'neath sic fatigue fast her spirits were sinkin',
And Jean doopit ower noo, as soun' as a tap.

Sleep nerves us for toil, and it clears us o' whisky,
Yet, sleep on the green is a dangerous risk aye;
But sleep, while on watch, play'd poor Jean sic a pliskie,
As may stan' for a warnin' to ane and to a'.
Ill luck threw that way a gleg, light-finger'd damsel,
Wha, for the rich prize, thought she'd risk the law's bensell;
Sae, stripped frae the railin' Jean's washin' for hansel
To her nightly toil, heedless what might befa'.

The news flew, like lightnin', o' Jean's sair mishanter,
Straught aff to the office she's wheeled at a canter,
And the lads in dark-blue at their wark didna saunter,
To ferret the quean, and recover the pack.

Ilk troker and broker that wons in the city,
Ilk howff, kenned to harbour lanlowpin banditti,
They rummaged, till ance the famed lady-thief witty
They captured, wi' a' the stown gear on her back.

(Spoken.)—Now, Jean lay soughin' awa' fu' soun'ly in a corner o' the office till about gray daylight, when she began to rax and gaunt before her een were open; and finnin her bed rather harder than ordinar', she began to glawm about her, and soon faund there was something wrang. Syne she tried if her memory could gi'e her ony insight, but it could bring her nae far'er than creepin' into the washing boyn, wi' the bladder in her bosom, aye takin' a blink now and then at the claes on the rails, and a' after that was but mist and darkness, a confused jumble. Seein' she had got a ravelt hesp to redd by her yesterday's wark, she cries, “Mysie, brang ye in the claes frae the green?” But, gettin' nae answer frae her dochter, and hearin' a wheen outlandish giggles o' laughin' mixt wi' keelie slang, oaths and curses, she raised her head frae the hard oak bench she was lyin' on, and got a glance o' her new neebors, wha had been brought in through the nicht, and were standin' and sittin' round the big half-burnt fire. “Guid watch owre us!” quo' Jean to hersel', “what can be the meanin' o' a' this? I've surely ta'en a towt o' the nicht-mare, and if I could but turn mysel' on my side, I wad get quat o' it.” Wi' that, she gied a row to get on her side, but put rather mair force till't than folk can do in the nicht-mare; sae she row'd owre the side o' the bench, an fell wi' a soss on the breast o' an Irish sailor, wha was lyin' on the floor. “Black spot on ye, ye owld hag; what do ye main, murthering people in cowld blood, in bed?—Gemmini, but I've a mighty notion to stove in the timbers of ye'r owl' crazy hull.” Sae when Jean faun she was within range o' the grapples o' an Irish sailor, the thocht o' the nicht-mare took wing; and she was beginning to tak' her excuse for her unseemly intrusion, when ben cam' an officer, wha calmed the coleshangie, and gied Jean an explanation o' her situation, advisin' her to ha'e patience till the bailie open'd the court, and he had nae doubt that she would be gye easy dealt wi'. It was a wearisome mornin' to Jean to sit sae lang amang sic a clamjamphry o' ruffians till the court opened; but at length, when her patience was worn to a hair, the hour chappit, and in cam' the bailie; and poor Jean's heart was duntin' wi' houp and fear when she was ca'ed ben to the court. Though she wasna in vera good order, she had made hersel' as snod as she could, and, wi' a decent beck, she entered.

Bailie.

—What is your name?

Jean.

—Deed, Sir, that's what I canna vera weel tell, as I'm no sure whether I e'er heard it or no.

Bailie,
laughing.

—Many appear here who have too many names, and

you, it seems, have too few: it, therefore, appears difficult to determine which of the two cases looks worst. Is there no name you go by?

Jean.

—Jean Saipysaples, please your honour.

Bailie.

—Little better than none! Such a name does, by no means, favour your case; but rather awakens stronger suspicion concerning your respectability.

Jean.

—I ha'e heard that I should ha'e anither name; but, bein' a foundlin', I was shankit aff to shift for mysel', as soon as I could do a han's turn in the place I was sent to (and that was the laird o' Glencruise's), where I was kepit slaisterin' and washin' day after day; sae the servants gied me the name o' Jean Saipysaples, and, no heedin' to take ony ither name, it just continued. But though it be a daft-like name—as lang's a body's honest, it sairs but little what the name be. There's my auld mistress, Mrs. Grubb, the lady o' Glencruisie, had a dochter baptized the ither Sabbath day, and to gar her look mair genteel, as she said, she gat her christened Margaretta Barbarina Julietta Alexina Sophietta Albertina Sarah Maria Victoria Grizzel Grubb. Now, if that wean hasna a far waurfaurt name than Jean Saipysaples, I'se leav't to your honour to judge. And yet Mrs. Grubb, for as refined a lady as she is, says it's a name that may gar the best o' the land tak' notice o' her yet, and gar a' the poets in the kintra round write sangs about her.

Bailie.

—There is truly but little in names, if the names be not fictitious. But as for women, in your line of business, carrying bladders of whisky with them to their lawful avocations, there are certainly strong objections. We have a striking proof of this in your own case. You were so much overcome by it, that the clothes were stolen with which you were intrusted; and the officers were taken off their dutie in search of the thief. The prosecution of the delinquent will cost both trouble and expenses, and all this would have been saved had you been in sobriety. So that, when all circumstances are taken into consideration, the crime of drinking to excess appears very heinous.

Jean.

—I maun e'en allow that its no good when the maut gaes aboon the meal; but how can a body work in cauld, blae, frosty weather like this, without something to warm their heart? If we hadna a cordial to bear us through, the town o' Glasgow wad be a' laid up thegither with the typhus fever or the cholera, for faut o' bein' keepit clean; and I'm sure a bladder's a far mair convenient and kindly thing to slip into a body's bosom than a bottle. But since ye hae gotten the impudent cutty that took awa the claes, I couldna say ye were owre sair on her, though she gat a quarter in Bridewell for't.

Bailie.

—I'm afraid, Mrs. Saipysaples, that will have to be your destination; her appointment must come from a higher court than this. “Saffs,” quo' Jean, “are ye speakin' that way o' ane that ne'er wrangt man, woman, or wean, a' her life?”

But just at this moment, in comes her dochter Mysie, wi' a letter in her han', accompanied by an officer, who delivered it to the bailie: the bailie soon brak' it open and read it to himsel'.

Bailie,
looking earnestly at Jean.

—I have received a letter, Mrs. Saipysaples, from Bailie Goodfellow, which has so much changed my opinion concerning your character, that I hereby dismiss you from this court, with this caution,—Take care in future not to keep too intimate acquaintance with whisky bladders.

When Jean heard this, she gied the bailie a curtchie, as laigh as she had been gaun to dance carcuddy, and left the court singin'—

Fareweel to fou bladders, that vile curse o' curses,
That cracks a' our credit, and plunders our purses,
That headaches and heartaches aye carefully nurses,
And sen's us to jails and to bridewells, forbye.
But look to stout honesty, mensefou and gawsy,
That sets down his shanks on the crown o' the causey;
Though pride cocks her nose, and struts by him right saucy,
Her scorn and disdain he can ever defy.

THE TINKLER'S WEDDING.

[_]

AIR,—“Moneymusk.”

In June when broom in bloom was seen,
And brackens waved fou fresh and green,
And warm the sun wi' silver sheen,
The hills and glens did gladden, O;
Ae day, upon the border bent,
The tinklers pitched their gipsy tent,
And auld and young, wi' ae consent,
Resolved to haud a weddin', O.

The bridegroom was wild Norman Scott,
Wha twice had broke the nuptial knot,
And ance was sentenced to be shot
For breach o' martial orders, O;
His gleesome joe was Madge M'Kell,
A spaewife, match for Nick himsel',
Wi' glamour, cantrip, charm, and spell,
She frichted baith the borders, O.

Nae priest was there, wi' solemn face,
Nae clerk to claim, o' crowns, a brace;
The piper and fiddler play'd the grace
To set their gabs asteerin', O.
'Mang beef and mutton, pork and veal,
'Mang painches, plucks, and fresh cow-heel,
Fat haggises and caller jeel,
They clawt awa careerin', O.

Fresh saumon newly ta'en in Tweed,
Saut ling and cod, o' Shetland breed,
They worry'd till kytes were like to screed,
'Mang flagons and flasks o' gravy, O.
There were raisin kail, and sweet-milk saps,
And ewe-milk cheese in whangs and flaps;
And they roopit, to gust their gabs and craps,
Right mony a cadger's cavie, O.

The drink flew round in wild galore,
And soon upraised a hideous roar;
Blithe Comus ne'er a queerer core
Saw seated round his table, O.
They drank, they danced, they swore, they sang,
They quarrell'd and 'greed the hale day lang,
And the wranglin' that rang amang the thrang
Wad match'd the tongues o' Babel, O.

The drink gaed done before their drouth,
That vex'd baith mony a maw and mouth,
It damped the fire o' age and youth,
And every breast did sadden, O;
Till three stout louns flew owre the fell,
At risk o' life, their drouth to quell,
And robbed a neebourin' smuggler's stell,
To carry on the weddin', O.

Wi' thunderin' shouts they hail'd them back,
To broach the barrels they werena slack,
While the fiddler's plane-tree leg they brake
For playing fareweel to whisky, O.
Delirium seized the roarous thrang,
The bagpipes in the fire they flang,
And sowthering-airns on riggins rang,
The drink play'd siccan a pliskie, O.

The sun fell laigh owre Solway's banks,
While on they plied their roughsome pranks,
And the stalwart shadows o' their shanks
Wide owre the muir were spreadin', O.
Till, heads-and-thraws, amang the whins,
They fell wi' broken brows and shins,
And sair-craist banes fill'd mony skins,
To close the Tinkler's Weddin', O.

LOO ME LITTLE AND LOO ME LANG.

[_]

AIR,—“The Legacy.”

Young Mary, jimply out nineteen,
Cam' blithely singin' adown the vale;
Few maids in Scotland wide, I ween,
Could match this lass wi' her milkin' pail.
Her face was as fresh as the flowers in May,
Wi' voice like the lark she lilted and sang;
And aye the burden o' her lay,
Was—loo me little, and loo me lang.

Blithe Robin wad me woo yestreen,
As I cam' hame frae the milkin' shiel;
He tauld me I had twa bewitchin' een,
And roosed my cheeks and my hair fu' weel.
He vow'd that he liked me best ava,
And to kiss me, his arms around my neck flang;
Half fun, half earnest, I cried—gae away!
Come—loo me little, and loo me lang.

When wand'rin' through the birks last week,
Young winsome Willie I chanced to meet;
He, bowin', advanced wi' a tale fu' sleek,
And said that I was to his min' complete.
He roosed me for virtue, for beauty, and wit,
And syne to my praise he chanted a sang;
But I left the poor havrel whene'er I thocht fit,
Sayin'—loo me little, and loo me lang,

But guess ye what now mak's me bonny and braw,
And guess ye what now gi'es me virtue and wit,
And guess ye what brings me the blithe wooers a',
Wha ance wadna lifted me at their fit.
My uncle is auld, and his bairns are a' dead—
He has bound me with gear, which has alter'd the sang;
But Jamie alane is the lad I will wed,
For he's looed me muckle, and looed me lang.

WALLACE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY BEFORE THE BATTLE OF FALKIRK.

[_]

AIR,—“Rothemurchie's favourite.”

Brave sons of Scotia, ever leal,
Long trained on war's terrific fiel',
Unsheath again the flaming steel,
To gain our country's liberty!
No truce can faithless Edward bind,
So base, ambitious is his mind;
Then let us, sword-in-hand, conjoined,
Quick burst the bands of tyranny!

Oft have his crowded ranks, before,
Been drenched amid their reeking gore,
And lowly sunk to rise no more,
Afraid to fight, unfit to flee!
And, haply, ere the blazing sun
Shall set beyond the mountain's dun,
O'er gloomy Carron's banks shall run
Our glorious shouts of victory!

Though jealous Cummin seeks the rear,
Or meanly flies, appalled by fear,
Yet Graham and Wallace still are here,
To share your fate, whate'er it be!
Let freedom's patriotic glow
Dispel all terror of the foe,
And Edward's host, ere long, may know
The power of firm fidelity!

On Carron's banks, our sires have stood
The Roman ranks, who all subdued,
And taught those stern marauders proud,
They fought or died for liberty!
And shall the soul-ennobling glow
Have ceased in Scottish breasts to flow,
Undaunted sons of freedom? No!
To death or glory follow me!

THE CHEVALIER'S WELCOME.

[_]

AIR,—“The Cuckoo's nest.”

Come ashore, Charlie Stuart, wi' your tartans on,
Come ashore, Charlie Stuart, wi' your tartans on,
The clan of brave Lochiel makes you welcome ev'ry one,
Since you've landed at Lochaber, wi' your tartans on.

We looked for you lang, ere you came across the sea,
Till hope had fled ilk breast, and the tear fill'd every e'e;
But our fears are chased awa now, by joy before unknown,
Since ye've landed safe among us, wi' your tartans on.
Hark! the gatherin' is sounding—the clans quick advance,
Each mountain and glen gleams wi' gun, sword, and lance;
The Lochaber axe will clear you a passage to the throne,
And at Holyrood we'll crown ye, wi' your tartans on.

Our wild mountain-echoes, long silent and dumb,
Now resound, to the swell of the bagpipe and drum;
The targe and claymore, that in battle oft have shone,
Will assert our Prince's rights now, wi' his tartans on.
See the ranks from the hills, stream, attired in each dye
Of the rainbow, that gleams on the dark cloudy sky;
While the rocks resound the tread of the sons of Caledon,
Flocking to their Prince's standard, wi' their tartans on.

The whigs ha'e vex'd us sarely, wi mony spitefu' jeers,
But times are alter'd fairly, sae they may ha'e their fears,
They will quickly change their tone, when they hear the bagpipe's drone,
And behold our daring warriors, wi' their tartans on.
Let us march, Charlie Stuart, wi' our tartans on,
There's no man without a true heart, that has tartans on;
Like the tempest of the North, we'll spread terror 'yond the Forth,
And the Saxon whigs will quake, to see our tartans on.

The Lowland chiefs await us, wi' anxious heart and e'e,
Brave Drummond and Kilmarnock, true Elcho and Dundee,
With daring Derwintwater, and fearless Elphistone,
Who will die before they flinch us, wi' our tartans on.
Like the wild mountain torrent, we'll quickly descend,
The rights and the laws of our Prince to defend;
The terror of our arms soon will shake the British throne,
And Whitehall will see us flauntin', wi' our tartans on.

THE CHEVALIER'S FAREWELL TO FLORA M'DONALD.

[_]

AIR,—“Joseph est bien Marie.”

Weep not, Flora, though we part—
Caution says “it must be so;”
For thy image on my heart
Shall remain where'er I go.
Now the blackest storm of danger
Blows around thy royal stranger;
But, though I must from thee fly,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.

Oft the early morn, o'ercast
By thick vapours, drear and dun,
Ushers smiling day, at last,
Gilded by the glorious sun.
So, to me, this night of sorrow,
May precede a joyous morrow;
But though fate thus turn the dye,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.

This small ring I pray thee take,
And this ringlet of my hair;
Keep, O keep them for the sake
Of one worthy of thy care.
Woods and rocks may be my dwelling,
Where the winter breeze is swelling!
But while I for life do fly,
Still I'll mind the Isle of Skye.

Farewell, Flora, beauteous guide,
Distant from thee I must roam,
Over land and ocean wide,
Till I reach a safer home.
Far from Highland hills and valleys,
Haply, thou shalt grace my palace,
And in my embraces lie:
Farewell, lovely maid of Skye.

BAULDY FRAZER'S GAZETTE OF THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

[_]

AIR,—“Cameronian Rant.”

Guid e'en t'ye, Bauldy, lean ye down,
And let us hae your crack, man,—
How's butter ratin' in the town?
Is trade now brisk or slack, man?
Or ken ye oucht about the wars,
How Britain sorts her feuds and jars?
I've heard our gallant mountaineers
Ha'e scoured their guns and filed their spears;
The French, ma certes, ha'e their fears,
Sin' Cam'ron's ta'en the lea, man;
Baith crakit crowns, and rippit kytes,
I trow, they'll shortly see, man.

Auld nei'bour Gawn, wi' staff in's han',
Cam' wheezlin' up the gait, man,
To tell us how the French had fa'en,
And Bonny was defeat, man;
And how the British, roun' and roun',
Lap owre the wa's o' Paris toun;
Baith sword and lance did brightly glance,
When they did lay the pride o' France;
And mony thousands tript the dance
O' death upon the lea, man;
Some tint their heads, some tint their legs,
The rest awa' did flee, man.

Lord Wellington, through mist and weet,
Fu' soon their drift did draw, man,
And drew his men, wi' motion fleet,
In mony a bonny raw, man.
His bauld dragoons, upon the plain,
Regardless o' baith fire and rain,
At first comman', wi' steady han',
Their giant swords had scarcely drawn,
Till scores o' cloven French lay fa'en—
(As sure as death it's true, man!)
They gasped, grain'd, and cursed the day
They cam' to Waterloo, man.

Our Norlan' lads, in tartan clad,
Did naething fear ava, man,
Afore them aye the road they redd,
Scotch valour they did shaw, man.

100

In horrid slaps, the rebel louns
Were levell'd by their sharp platoons;
But when they heard the Cornal's words,—
Fix'd Bayonets, and Highland swords!
Fast aff the birkies flew like birds,
To save their precious lives, man;
But thousands o' them ne'er wan hame
To see their weans and wives, man.

But och! it's painfu' to relate,
(Although we gain'd the day, man,)
Brave Ponsonby and Picton's fate,
As weel as mony mae, man;
Wi' gallant Cam'ron o' the North,
The bravest chiel ayont the Forth.
But, guid-be-thankit, Bonny's fled,
For wham sae mony thousands bled;
A bonny dance himsel' he's led,
The proud ambitious fool, man;
His throne, he thocht sae firm and sure,
Has cowpit like a stool, man.

THE BATTLE OF WATERLOO.

[_]

AIR,—“In the garb of old Gaul.”

When the tyrant of Gallia had broke his captive chain,
And threatened to scourge bleeding Europe again;
The genius of Freedom fled to his cavern hoar,
But the verdant tree of liberty bloom'd fair on our shore.
Then Wellington, with manly soul, Britannia's god of war,
Preferring death to base control, indignant rose afar,
With other leaders, skilled in arms, like lions bold and true,
They met the rebels clad in steel at dire Waterloo.

Loud the drum's thund'ring roll, and the trumpet's martial clang,
O'er the calm plains of Belgium discordantly rang;
By the dawning of morn, march'd the deep legions on,
Like a forest of steel far around Mount Saint John.
'Twas then the daring cuirassiers, in panoply immured,
'Gainst fate, and death, and British arms, did think themselves secured,
Till through their lines, with dreadful crash, our gallant heroes flew,
With dauntless hearts, and strength unmatch'd, at dire Waterloo.

101

Soon the thunder of France in terrific peals awoke,
Quick our brave scarlet ranks darted through the rolling smoke,
The dense battle cloud dimm'd the bright orb of day,
While the earth shook with dread 'neath the direful affray.
Incessant reel'd the musketry, clear gleam'd the Polish lance,
Harsh peel'd the deep artillery of Britain and of France,
The dreadful charge of cavalry accordant horror threw
Upon the scene, the fatal plain of dire Waterloo.

Not the raging tornado, nor simoom's fell sweep,
Extending destruction o'er desert and deep;
Nor earth-shaking Etna's eruption's red glare,
With lightning and thunder comixed, can compare
With the horrific havoc spread along the gory field,
When Gaul's determin'd warriors had to British arms to yield;
Far from the rampant lion's roar the imperial eagles flew,
And left the plain o'erspread with slain at dire Waterloo.

Repulsed and distracted, they fled o'er the plain,
Unable to hazard the combat again;
Through the terror-struck ranks, quick, this wild accent ran,—
“All is lost—ever lost! quickly fly, whoe'er can!”
What dreadful slaughter then ensued, when thus dismay'd by fear,
While loudly rang our heroes' blades upon their broken rear;
And those who miss'd their force and fire, most sadly yet shall rue
That ere they join'd the tyrant's flag at dire Waterloo.

BUONAPARTE'S LAMENT IN HIS LAST EXILE.

[_]

AIR,—“Lady Charlotte Durham's favourite,”

Sequester'd here, afar from fame,
And hope's enchanting smile,
I spend in woe life, ebbing slow,
On this remote, secluded isle;
Where all I spy is sea or sky,
Round this horrific steep,
And nought I hear but howlings drear
From off the foaming deep.

O lovely Seine, thy banks so green,
Alas! no more I'll tread,
No future morn, to me forlorn,
Can bring the happy scenes now fled.

102

Thy glades and groves, where pleasure roves,
I bade a last adieu,
When fortune's star, my doom, by war,
Resolved at Waterloo.

No pleasure brings the blazing sun,
Though in the glow of day,
Nor solemn night, star-spangled bright,
Can drive my exile-grief away.
Contention's fate I've seen too late,
And grandeur's luring glare,
So here my doom is endless gloom,
With sullen, grim despair.

No more again, on hill or plain,
To me shall ranks appear,
Nor blazing steel e'er more shall reel,
In charge of bayonet or spear.
Keen ruin's blast, my lot at last,
Hath driven me far from joy;
Fate, take my life! but spare my wife,
And harmless, darling boy.

THE REBEL'S LAMENT.

[_]

AIR,—“The days o' langsyne.”

When I look to the Highlan's, the tear fills my e'e,
For there I was ance independent and free;
But now I maun wander the wide Lowlan's o'er,
And solicit cauld charity frae door to door;
And the cause o' my wanderin', thus hameless and poor,
Was my followin' the Prince on Culloden's sad moor.

Ah, waeworth the fatally ruinous day,
When the foe cross'd the fords o' the clear rollin' Spey!
When the forces o' Cumberlan' seal'd my sad lot,
And my twa gallant sons fell by ae cannon shot!
Then adversity's cloud on our cause dark did lower,
When our front-rank was broke on Culloden's sad moor.

Our clans fought like lions, true hearted ilk man,
Contending, like rivals, wha wad lead the van;

103

But, our shot being spent, wi' despair's wildest roar,
We faced the foe's fire wi' the naked claymore:
Nae tigers, defendin' their young, fought mair dour,
Than ilk clansman, that day, on Culloden's sad moor.

But, routed and ruin'd, I durst na gae hame;
My lands were attainted, my house set on flame;
My braw sons baith slain, my dear wife died o' grief—
Och, I thocht the could grave wad to me been relief!
Lang, lang ha'e I wandered now, hameless and poor,
And I'll mourn till I die for Culloden's sad moor.

THE POLISH REFUGEE.

[_]

AIR,—“Buy a broom.”

On the banks of the Seine, when the twilight was failing,
And the moon's yellow rays gilded palace and tree,
A poor Polish refugee stray'd, thus bewailing
The wrongs of his country and lost liberty—
“Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
There's no land, there's no land,
'Neath the blue vault of heaven, so ill-fated as thee!

“To arms! was the cry; 'gainst the despot, united,
Each patriot, undaunted, his weapon did draw;
But hope's verdant leaves by despair soon were blighted,
When our last stand was made round the walls of Warsaw.
Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
Can no hand, can no hand,
Dethrone that dread power that makes tyranny law?

“The conflict was dire, and the carnage appalling;
‘To exile or death’! was the savage foe's yell—
But, vanquish'd at last, to our souls, O 'twas galling,
When destruction's harsh trump sounded freedom's last knell.
Sweet Poland, sweet Poland,
Thou now art our foe's land,
And thy children must bid thee an endless farewell.”

104

KATTIE CHRISTIE.

[_]

AIR,—“East neuk o' Fife.”

At the east neuk o' Fife dwelt a bonnie blooming girl,
Wha, for beauty and mien, could match either lord or earl;
Sae sweet was her look, that the di'mond and the pearl
Could add naething to the charms of Kattie Christie, O.
She was sweet nineteen,
Wi' pure azure een;
And her yellow hair
Flow'd in ringlets rare;
She was tight and tall,
And, take her all-in-all,
You'll but seldom meet the match of Kattie Christie, O.

The carlins o' Fife vow'd she was nae canny cummer,
That could glaze ilka e'e, wi' Love's delusive glamour,
And ilk wooer fan she was skill'd in Venus' grammar;
When every heart did glow for Kattie Christie, O.
At bridal and fair
She the gree bore there;
She the lads o' Fife
Held in constant strife;
And the priest was vex'd,
When reading out his text,
To fin' ev'ry e'e was fix'd on Kattie Christie, O.

'Twas a sair time in Fife, 'mang the wooers late and early,
Mony hearts glow'd wi' hope, mony pined and languish'd sairly;
Faithers gloom'd, mithers flate, lasses spite and spleen did ware aye
In profusion 'gainst young lovely Kattie Christie, O.
Sae wide spread her fame
'Yond her circle at hame,
Lothian lairds cross'd the Forth,
Chieftains cam' frae the north;
The precentor, by report,
Ran lang metre into short,
Through a random glance he got o' Kattie Christie, O.

There were warm hopes at hame for the fortune o' this darlin',
There were sair dool and shame spaet by ilka envious carlin;
But Fate, on Time's wings, ended a' sic idle quarrellin',
And soon stamp'd the lot o' pretty Kattie Christie, O.
Now her lovers a'
Need nae langer ca',

105

Baith auld and young
Are aside a' flung;
For the dancing master's come,
Beating time like ony drum,
And has fairly won the heart o' Kattie Christie, O.

Now there's braw peace in Fife, 'mang the rival lads and lasses,
There's an end to a' strife 'mang the fierce contending classes,
And ilk ane now sees—they were doilt as mules or asses,
To be sae sair bewitch'd by Kattie Christie, O.
She threw wealth aside
To exalt the pride
Of this jumpin' John,
Wi' his turn'-pumps on,
Who must through the world go—
Flatter, shuffle, heel-and-toe,
To support in style, his charming Kattie Christie, O.

WHILE TEMPEST RAGES O'ER THE DEEP.

[_]

A DUET.—Music, Original.

While tempest rages o'er the deep,
And moon and stars in darkness sleep,
When not an object striks the eye,
Save lightning flashing through the sky;
Who then the seaman's fate would share,
Now plunged in brine, then toss'd in air:
While hope, expell'd by grim despair,
From every breast doth fly?
None then would share the seaman's lot,
Though tenant of the meanest cot.

But when the surging gale is o'er,
And swift the vessel nears the shore;
When wives and sweethearts hail again
The heroes of the stormy main;
Who then can feel the joyous glow
That in the seaman's breast doth flow,
When landed safe from storm and foe
The flowing can to drain?
The seaman's bliss but few can share,
Though born a monarch's crown to wear.

106

HAB O' THE MILL.

[_]

AIR,—“Todlin' but and Todlin' ben.”

'Mang a' the fine feelings to frail mortals lent,
There is nane that's mair sweet than the smile o' content;
It gars the time flee sae delightfully smooth,
That our noddle's turn grey while we think we're in youth.
Yet it shuns courts and crowns for the glen and the hill,
And tak's shelter remote wi' auld Hab o' the Mill.

Auld Hab has wonn'd there for years threescore and ten,
Yet he ne'er was sax miles frae his ain native glen;
And though the same scenes to his e'e still appear,
Yet they never him tire, but are ever as dear:
While the blackbird's blithe sang, and the laverock's gay trill,
Ever cheer up the heart o' auld Hab o' the Mill.

Auld Mirren and he, as guidman and guidwife,
Ha'e a half-cent'ry pass'd free o' dull care and strife;
While a family they've raised, by example and thrift,
That for virtue are equall'd by few 'neath the lift:
Which delights the auld pair wi' true joy's sweetest thrill,
Sae few mortals are bless'd like auld Hab o' the Mill.

His sons they are hardy, true-hearted, and leal,
What they say wi' their tongue wi' their blood they will seal;
His dochters are bonny, and modest, yet free,
And the blithe blink o' love flashes warm frae ilk e'e;
And fou crouse is the wooer wha gets the guidwill
To become son-in-law to auld Hab o' the Mill.

In winter, when snell frost the mill-lade up locks,
And the shochles, like crystal, hing clear frae the rocks;
Wi' some auld couthie friend he the time passes by,
Nor complains o' the drift wheeling chill through the sky.
Wi' a crack and a snuff, and a cog o' guid yill,
Never king was mair happy than Hab o' the Mill.

O fortune, shower titles and wealth on the great,
For me I'll ne'er wish for their splendour nor state;
If thou'lt only me bless wi' contentment through life,
Far frae malice, frae envy, frae discord, and strife;
Then the cup of my lot to the brim thou wilt fill,
And I'll toddle through life like auld Hab o' the Mill.

107

THE BRIDAL PROSPECT.

[_]

AIR,—“Cheer up, my roving soldier.”

The woodcock has left the clear fountains,
The robin's awa' to the woods,
The whaup has come back to the mountains,
And the lav'rock sings blithe 'mang the clouds;
The merle and the mavis are liltin'
In the birken shaw sae gay;
Then haste thee round, blithsome beltan,
For thou art my bridal day!

I'll hae a silk gown o' the crimson,
A scarf like the blue o' the sky;
And seldom the sun's thrown a glimpse on
A bride ony brawer than I:
Wi' a Tuscan bonnet sae gaudy,
And feathers as white as the swan,
A' to charm the leal heart o' my laddie,
That day he is made my goodman.

The weaver's got plenty o' yarn now
For tykin', and blankets, and sheets;
Sae I'll look like my faither's ain bairn now,—
Wealth best aye the lowe o' love beets.
A flittin' baith gausy and gaudy,
I weel keen, my folk will gi'e me,
That winna affront my dear laddie,
Whase mailin's weel stocked and free.

Saxscore we will ha'e at the bridal,
A' blithsome, and bonny, and braw;
But I fear I my joy will can hide ill,
For my heart's like to loup clean awa!
And when in a raw we're marchin'
The bonny burnside alang,
The mavis, on green birks perchin',
Will lilt to the fiddle a sang.

We'll dance and we'll sing till the morning
In the cheery east appear;
And the joyous guests, returning,
Will get, frae the lav'rocks, a cheer.
Then haste thee round, blithesome beltan,
How can ye sae lang delay?
Thy name sets my heart a-meltin',
For thou art my bridal day.

108

GREEN BUD THE BIRKS AGAIN.

[_]

AIR,—“Green grows the rashes.”

Green bud the birks again,
Green bud the birks again,
The primrose springs, the mavis sings,
And Robin vows he'll be my ain.

Wi' him I've ranged the birken shaw,
Wi' him I've wander'd by the burn;
I sigh'd when Robin was awa,
But sang wi' joy at his return.

The swallow skims, on wing fu' fleet,
Athwart the summer-evenin' sky,
Sae swift, wi' Robin, and sae sweet,
The langest nichts hae glided by.

There's nane like him can sing and dance,
There's nane like him sae leal, I trow,
There's nane like him, wi' winnin' glance,
Sae finely kens the way to woo.

O' him I think the leelang day,
O' him I dream the leelang nicht,
Wi' him in fancy still I stray;
Sae time flees by unheeded licht.

My faither fain would ha'e me tied
To some daft gomrel landed laird;
But I'll be nane but Robin's bride,
For he is a' my heart's regard.

THE LASSIE ON THE BANKS OF CART.

[_]

AIR,—“The Flowers of Edinburgh.”

The lint's in the bell, and the bloom's on the pea,
And the gowans, snaw-white, gem the green grassy lea;
In the fresh birken shaw the sweet blackbird now sings,
And wi' chorus o' larks a' the welkin loud rings.
The gloamin' draws on, and my labour is done,
And the houlet now screams frae the wa's o' Pynoon;
Wi' joy I'll tak' the gaet, like an arrow or a dart,
To my heart enchantin' lassie on the banks of Cart.

O sweet is the glance o' her mild modest e'e,
And warm is the love that she still shows to me;

109

Her heart's aye sae leal, and her manner sae kind,
That the strong cords of love 'round my heart are twined.
And lang may they bind my affection to her,
Whom I above all earthly objects revere!
We aye should meet at morn, if that night I mean to part,
With my charming loving lassie on the banks of Cart.

When winter assails us wi' cauld wind and weet,
And boreas descends, clad in hail, snow, or sleet,
I could wend to my true love, as blithsome and gay
As in warm July, or the mildest of May.
Gi'e av'rice to wallow in spoils of Peru,
Gi'e me but my Jeannie, sae constant and true;
Wi' rapture still we meet, but the tear is like to start,
When I leave my lovely lassie on the banks of Cart.

THE LASS OF DYCHMONT-HILL.

[_]

AIR,—“Lady Harriet Hope's favourite.”

The sun's departing splendour
Frae out the glens now steals awa',
And tints wi' orange grandeur
The tap o' Bothwell-castle's wa';
And now, 'neath dews sae mellow,
That sweetly on the fields distil,
Amang the broom sae yellow,
I'll meet the lass of Dychmont-hill.

Sweet maids baith fair and comely
Adorn the fertile country wide,
In gaudy dress or homely,
Along the charming vale of Clyde;
But a' I've heard, and a' I've seen,
To gar the youthfu' bosom thrill,
Gi'e me the lips, gi'e me the e'en,
Of her wha dwells on Dychmont-hill.

But oh! her lovely bosom,
Where reigns that heart unstained by guile,
The purest lily's blossom
Compared wi' that were dim and vile.
Leal, constant, undeceiving,
Ne'er teas'd wi' a capricious will;
If she'll be mine, then I'll entwine
My fate wi' hers of Dychmont-hill.

110

THE MERRY GARD'NER.

[_]

AIR,—“The Dandy, O.”

When spring returns with flowers,
And fresh verdure decks the bowers,
And the chilling breath of winter's past and gone, gone, gone;
To train his plants so gay,
'Neath the blackbird's cheering lay,
Who's so happy as the gard'ner with his apron on?

With compass, square, and line,
He makes all in order shine,
To charm the eye and make dull care begone, gone, gone;
And to shun the fervid heat,
To his bower he doth retreat;
O what bliss attends the gard'ner with his apron on!

When rosy summer fair
Sweet perfumes the glowing air,
How delightfully he muses while alone, lone, lone,
'Mong sweet flowers of every die
That can charm the raptured eye—
Pleasure still attends the gard'ner with his apron on.

Next autumn skims the plain
To reward his toil with gain,
Then how blithe he bears his horn of plenty home, home, home;
While the smile of sweet content,
Round his bless'd fireside is sent,
To rejoice the merry gard'ner with his apron on.

When winter rules the air,
To the Lodge he doth repair,
And by every honest brother there is known, known, known,
Whom he joins with heart and hand,
To fulfil the high command
Of the sceptred kings that sat on Judah's throne, throne, throne.

Then fill your brimmers up,
Let each brother seize his cup,
Let all discord, care, and sadness, aye begone, gone, gone;
While we drink that joy and peace
May for evermore increase,
'Mong true gard'ners, when assembled, with their aprons on.

111

GALLOWA' TAM.

[_]

TUNE,—“Moll in the Wad.”

Young Gallowa' Tam cam' down the glen,
Chapt at the winnock, but durst na come ben;
I gaed to the door and I crackit awee,
And syne frae the nail whipit down the barn key.
Though the kintra misca' him for waur than the de'il,
I ne'er yet saw ought indiscreet in the chiel;
'Tis true, I maun own, he whiles tak's a bit dram,
But that's now nae exception in Gallowa' Tam.

It happen'd that night, that the laird o' the hill
Cam' down to my father to speer the guidwill;
My mither leugh butt, and my mither leugh ben,
And tauld the laird he'd begun at the wrang end.
For a young lassie's fancy no easy gart jee,
When charm'd wi' the blink o' a young laddie's e'e;
The gowk thocht she only was makin' a sham,
But ne'er dreamt o' the wiles o' young Gallowa' Tam.

The laird is a crabbit and hoyden-gray hash,
Can talk about nocht but his gear and his cash;
The priest's no yet born wha will buckle us twa,
Though my faither should gie me nae tocher ava.
What signifies wealth, if nae pleasure we share?
What signifies wedlock, if love be nae there?
Sae, fareweel to the auld, wither'd, peat-reekit ram,
But aye welcome blithe penniless Gallowa' Tam.

At rockin', at bridal, at market, or fair,
Nae pleasure had I if young Tam wasna there;
But when he appear'd ilka bosom did jump,
For o' company Tam was the tongue o' the trump.
The hearts o' the lasses he wiles ane and a',
And ilka chiel's spite on his shouthers maun fa';
They may jeer, they may slander, his credit to slam,
But I ne'er think the less o' young Gallowa' Tam.

He dances sae light, and he sings wi' sic glee,
He's wiled in love's fetters mae lasses than me;
He tells me his love wi' sae winnin' an art,
That ilka word fa's like a charm on my heart.
Come weal or come woe, then, come pleasure or pain,
Though faither and mither say—“Lassie, refrain!”
I'll wed wi' the lad that my heart first o'ercam',
And leave fortune to guide me wi' Gallowa' Tam.

112

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

[_]

AIR,—“Highland Laddie.”

My soldier lad now hame has come
Frae foreign wars
Unscaithed wi' scars;
Nae mair he'll follow fife and drum,
But stay wi' me,
Frae danger free.
Though time and clime ha'e blanch'd his cheeks
When far frae me
Out owre the sea;
A lealfu' heart his e'e bespeaks,
Unalter'd still
To ought that's ill.

Aye since the day he gaed awa,
My heart, frae grief,
Gat nae relief;
But now my fears are banish'd a',
When he's return'd,
For whom I mourn'd.
O when I saw his tartans green
And bonnet's plume
Wave owre the broom,
The tears o' joy did blin' my een,
To see my love
Aye constant prove.

Afar frae fiel's o' gleamin' steel,
The noisy drum
And bagpipe's hum,
Wi' crook and plaid my love's array'd,
To tend his flocks
'Mong glens and rocks.
Fareweel to war, and a' its waes,
The cannon's roar
And drawn claymore;
Wi' joy we'll range the heather braes,
And spend a life
Unknown to strife.

113

POEMS.

The Pleasures of Faith.

Bright Goddess—who, with eagle eye sublime,
Look'st upward to yon high celestial clime,
Whose beatific charms from bondage free—
Say, Power benignant! dare I sing of thee?

Yes! though untaught to strike the classic lyre,
And touch the bosom with ecstatic fire;
Though doom'd to toil in labour's irksome cell,
Far from the scenes where wealth and honour dwell;
Though starr'd to brave misfortune's sweeping surge,
And oft o'erwhelm'd below the swelling gorge—
Warm rolls the torrent o'er my thrilling soul,
Poetic rapture spurning all control:
I raise my voice to sing thy joys, O Faith!
Which cheer the saint through the dark vale of death,
While, 'neath thy brilliant rays, he draws his latest breath.
I court no Muse on pure Olympus' height
To guide me in the high, the heavenward flight;
Thy aid, O Deity, I crave alone,
Who sitt'st on heaven's bright angel-circled throne;
Thy aid, that thou, in mercy, wouldst reveal
The vision fair; and, while I sing it, feel
The sweets ambrosial which it can impart,
The only opiate for the sinful heart.

Keen memory a backward look may throw
On joys departed, shorn of all their woe;
And who can view his childhood's scenery bright,
Yet feel no filmy tear bedim his sight?
But all is fled! fled, never to return,
Inclosed for aye in Time's chaotic urn!

Hope's magic power may gild our youthful days
With fleeting scenes through fancy's florid maze;

114

May ope bright visions to the dazzled eye
Which in the end appear illusions sly;
May spur to action, yet, when all is done,
Her darling object may not then be won:
Her warmest feelings, when most sternly fix'd,
With doubts and fears are still profusely mix'd.

But Faith displays no mind-deceiving dream
Of pleasure, gliding down the fatal stream
Where smoothly sails her gilded bark along,
Till headlong hurl'd sheer ruin's rocks among.
No! 'twas no weak, delusive, vague demur
Made Abra'am leave the fertile plains of Ur,
While, inly prompted by that Power divine,
He roam'd the distant land of Palestine;
Nor wild illusions of the vagrant mind
Caused him, in age, believe an heir to find,
From whom a race as num'rous, and as bright,
Should spring, as stars that gild the vault of night.
How bless'd the vision of the faithful sire,
To see, among that race, the just's Desire—
Messiah—born, death's bloody field to tread,
And, by his passion, bruise the serpent's head:
Adown time's lengthen'd vista beam'd his eye,
And view'd the scene in clear perspective lie—
The Saviour's triumph in the realms of light,
And Satan chain'd in tenfold shades of night.

Firm and unshaken as the flinty rock
Was his pure faith, which stood the potent shock
Of trial, and the wondrous conquest won,
When drew the sire the knife to slay his son;
That son, from whom, by God's supreme command,
A race should spring, as countless as the sand:
What throbbings must his tender heart have borne
When nature's ties by him in twain were torn,
And on the pile, with meek imploring eye,
His darling son a victim weak did lie!
But steadfast Faith firm nerved his feeling soul,
Though down his cheeks the tears of nature stole,
To show submission to that Power divine
Who never acts from motives unbenign.

115

An endless prospect opens to the eye,
On the instructive page of history,
Of saints heroic, who, like granite rock,
Have braved stern persecution's direst shock;
Nor could the fellest form of gloomy death
Appal their souls, upborne by cheering Faith.
Torture in vain the crucifix hath rear'd,
In vain with blood the rack hath been besmear'd,
In vain the fagot's fiercest flames have stung,
In vain the headsman's axe hath direful rung,
In vain, death-fraught, hath reel'd the shower of stones,
Or wheel to dust hath bruised the martyr's bones—
With angel-meekness has their latest breath,
In smiles, been pour'd, amid the scenes of death.

Wondrous the blissful power that could bestow
Strength to contemn the life-consuming glow
Of fire terrific, blown to sevenfold rage,
That death to all approachers did presage!
Such power did Faith indelibly impart,
To cheer, 'neath threaten'd martyrdom, the heart
Of those illustrious Jews whom Pagan ire
Doom'd to the ordeal of Chaldean fire;
Such power did Faith through Daniel's soul infuse—
High favour'd prophet of the captive Jews—
As led him ne'er God's law to disobey,
Though he should perish by the beasts of prey:
Firm clave their anchor to that Rock secure
Which can temptation's fellest storm endure.

Thus Faith can cheer each gloomy mundane scene,
Though terrors frown the heavenly bliss between;
Can realise those pleasures ever new,
Though densely dark unto the carnal view;
Can lift her voice, to join the dulcet song
That flows the pure angelic choir among,
Who from their harps such harmony impart
As could entrance with rapture every heart.

Oh, for the grand apocalyptic sight
Of that bless'd realm of infinite delight,
Where haggard want and woe can ne'er appear!
Whose fields still bloom, whose sky is ever clear,

116

Whose rivers, springing from life's sacred source,
Round rocks of brightest gems, do wind their course,
Whereof who drinks shall never thirst again,
But through eternity refresh'd remain;
Whose ever-verdant trees' ambrosial fruit,
With nodding welcome, doth the saints salute
To taste the luscious food, so fair to view,
Of which who ever ate ne'er hunger knew.

Faith from the mind all murmur doth expel,
And plants content there evermore to dwell;
She teaches all her vot'ries ne'er to fret,
Although by life's distresses sore beset;
Smooths the erst frowning brow of poverty
Amidst the rigours of the toiling day;
Awakes the finest feelings of the soul,
Immured before in stupor's black control;
Gives resignation when affliction's nigh,
Content to live, and fortitude to die:
Thus life she sweetens! but her strongest power
Sheds on the saint to cheer his dying hour.

Firm resting on the promise of his God,
He longs to reach his ever-bless'd abode,
And trusts that his all-gracious Sire on high
Will soothe the widow's grief and orphan's cry;
Will guide them, through earth's wilderness of woe,
From every outward, every latent foe,
And waft them, when they leave its dreary shore,
Safe to His arms, to taste of grief no more.
Such aid upheld those heaven-approved few
Whom persecution's vengeance did pursue;
Who, for Immanuel's life-dispensing cause,
Were doom'd to perish 'neath tyrannic laws;
Who, for their pure benevolence of mind,
Were too, too good to dwell with base mankind;
These trod the footsteps of their Master dear,
Unmindful of their suff'rings, though severe,
Conscious that, when life's per'lous day was o'er,
To joys beyond conception they would soar.

How dark, terrific, is the sullen lour
That shrouds the sceptic at death's gloomy hour?

117

No charm can soothe his agonising mind,
On all sides round no solace can he find;
Shut are wit's once exhilarating springs,
Shorn are his fancy's bounding eagle wings;
Stern conscience throws her venom-pointed dart,
That shoots corrosive anguish through the heart;
Perverted reason brands his tortured soul,
And mem'ry spreads her guilt-bedaubed roll;
Time's trickling sands, he deems, too rapid run;
Too soon to set glides down the evening sun;
Conviction's lamp faint glimmers on his eye,
When down he sinks into eternity!

Such horror frown'd, through infinite despair,
Upon the sceptic bosom of Voltaire,
When life refused her cordial beams to shed
Around the witty infidel's death-bed;
When all his humour, all his atheist lore,
The passing moments could beguile no more;
When, from profoundest hell, began to flow
That fire which wakes the sharpest pangs of woe—
That fire which, kindled, nought can ever quench,
But, flaming, burns with keen sulphureous stench—
Intense, as lightning through the welkin driven,
Eternal, as the sure decrees of heaven:
A backward eye he, haply, throws on youth,
Before estranged far from the path of truth;
What heart-contentment then his bosom found,
Ere he had trod the daring sceptic's ground!
But such a retrospect, when view'd thus late,
In tenfold misery sinks his hapless state;
He dies, to live anew to sharper pain,
Where torture merciless doth ever reign!

Faith's power to cool affliction's scorching fire
Did make the stubborn infidel admire—
Admire, and wish that hour he ne'er had met
Which had his mind with doubtings vain beset—
When he espied the fortitude of mind
Display'd by good La Roche, by Faith refined,
While he endured the shock of trial great,
Yet bow'd with meek submission to his fate:

118

The dear companion of his bosom torn
Away by death—a stranger he forlorn—
His only child—his daughter sweet and fair,
Who sole remain'd his sufferings sad to share—
Sunk, 'spite of all the sage physician's art,
Beneath the cureless wound—a broken heart!
Untimely doom'd to tenant death's drear cell,
For rival lovers, who both fought and fell:
Yet soar'd the feeling saint o'er all these woes,
Which Faith's triumphant power resplendent shows.

Bless'd emanation from the throne above!
Rich garnish'd grace of all-surpassing love!
May thy transcendent pleasures wide be shed
By Him who is thy only fountain-head;
Shed o'er a world by passions wild o'errun,
Shed to eclipse sin's scorching tropic sun,
Shed to prepare mankind for joys that lie
In other worlds, veil'd from the carnal eye!
'Tis thou canst penetrate those regions sheen,
Angelic “evidence of things not seen!”
Canst more than mountain obstacles remove,
And fix the mind on endless themes of love,
Which brightly shine, with still-increasing ray,
In the pure realms of immortality.

David Hume.—Vide the story of La Roche.

A Dream.

The silver-leaf'd willow
Did wave in the breeze;
On Flora's soft pillow
I lay at my ease:
I mused on the folly
Of gay thoughtless youth,
Which brings melancholy—
Oh heart-rending truth!

Thus lonely I ponder'd
Beside a clear stream,
Till, in reasoning wander'd,
I slept, and did dream;

119

A nymph stood beside me,
In full bloom of youth,
Who said, she would guide me
To unerring truth.

Amazed at her kindness,
I knelt at her feet;
A leader to find thus
I grateful did greet:
For long I in error
And darkness had stray'd;
And heart-burning terror
Threw life all in shade.

She quickly upraised me,
And soon she did show,
That virtue should praised be
For banishing woe.
I listen'd her story,
Convincing and clear,
Was downcast and sorry,
And dropp'd a sad tear.

The tale, dearest reader,
Is simple and true;
The tale of my leader;
I'll tell it to you.
She lean'd on a hawthorn
And did it rehearse;
Then hear 't without scorn,
In Pindaric verse.

“A sage dwelt by yon shady wood,
His clay-built cot was thatch'd with rushes;
All could declare the hermit good,
Who lived obscurely 'mong the bushes.
But they as uniformly led
A counter life: they would not tread
The path to joy; for they did dread
The power that sensual pleasure crushes.

“O Vanity! thou enemy
To all internal peace;
Where thou dost rule we find a fool,
And wisdom's quick decrease.

120

“Well: on a day this hermit lay
Beneath a hawthorn fair,
Rapt in deep adoration;
To Him, whose is creation,
He breathed a fervent prayer:
When forth stepp'd a young libertine,
Who cried, ‘Why dost thou groan and whine,
Reclusely, in this wild?
What will avail thy abstinence,
Thus curbing all the joys of sense,
When death thy days hath foil'd?’

“The sage was struck with great surprise,
And on the youngster fix'd his eyes,
And thus, laconical, did say
What made the stripling slide away.

“‘If that within the human soul
Eternity's clear tide doth roll,
Then am I bless'd with endless life,
Whilst thou art plunged in deathless strife.

“‘But if, beyond life's fatal sigh,
All be but blank nonentity,
I'm still the gainer, for I've shunn'd
Rude riot's sting, that oft thee stunn'd.’

“So spake the sire; the youth withdrew,
And own'd his reasoning was true:
So deep did passion's fangs him fix on,
The wise reply but wrought conviction;
The rede he did regard no more,
So lived as he had done before.

“But profit thou by his advice,
And prize the talent Time;
Make true religion now thy choice,
While yet in youthful prime:
Submit to heaven's high behest,
Which will thee lead to endless rest;
The road is smoothest, surest, best—
It winds through Zion's clime.”

121

Ode to the Sun.

Thou glorious Orb that shinest on high,
To us, the monarch of the sky,
Again I see thee southward hie
From Cancer's scorching tower:
Far, far from Scotia's desert plains,
The seat of cheerful nymphs and swains,
Thou fliest; and sullen clouds and rains
In gloomy horror lour.

The change is just; so let it be;
For other realms, as well as we,
Rejoice thy brilliant smile to see,
And feel thy cheering beam.
No people, between pole and pole,
But feel thy mighty power, O Sol!
While Terra round her course doth roll,
Thy use will be their theme.

The fragrant birks thy worth proclaim,
The verdant meads confess the same,
The yellow broom far spreads thy fame,
And flowers thy anthem raise;
And, fond, at eventide I rove,
To list the music of the grove,
The sweet retreat of ardent love,
Whence flow the amorous lays.

There too the fancy-wafted bard
Finds shelter from misfortune hard;
From social pleasure oft debarr'd,
For want of needful money;
In lieu of which, thy offspring sweet,
Flowers, shrubs, with birds, is his retreat;
A bless'd Elysium, quite replete
With life's most luscious honey.

122

A Sabbath Morning Reflection.

SCENE—Torrance Hermitage.

Once more begone, ye bustling toils of life,
That, with incessant clamour, grating jar;
While here, sequester'd from all human eyes,
I taste the sweet, the hallow'd day of rest:
But not in solitude, for all around
Is joy and gladness, rapturously sweet;
From every shrub and thicket, bough and spray,
Soul-soothing melody is pour'd profuse.
From yonder larch, but late with verdure clad,
The blackbird's lay in boldest cadence flows;
The thrush, from yon green birch, her dulcet strain
Disseminates, more sweet than softest flute;
The linnet, redbreast, bullfinch, e'en the wren,
All join in harmony to hail the morn;
While Calder, gurgling o'er her rocky path,
Excites the mind to contemplation sweet.

Here then dwells Deity, all nature cries;
What just arrangement still the senses meet!
What skill, past utterance, past conception far,
Appears, in every stroke and lineament
Of this first Cause, from whom all blessings flow!
Oh pride! that e'er in man thou shouldst have found
A haven where to hatch thy impious brood,
When all creation, subject to his ken,
With never-ceasing voice, proclaims aloud
That God, in every action, should be praised:
What hast thou, man, whereof thou mayest boast,
In mind or body, riches, titles, power?
Nought: all thy boasted dignity, assumed,
Is but the offspring of that cursed lust
Which threw bright Lucifer and his compeers
From Heaven's delightful realms of love and joy,
Down to the gloomy sulphurous vaults of hell,
To pine, blaspheme, and rage, in endless woe.
Why doat on knowledge? the infernal crew
Surpass thee almost to infinity:
Of this thou may'st be easily convinced,
When every day that passes o'er thy head

123

Shows how their sly delusion-baited snares
Can draw thee, captive, on to ruin's shore,
And all unseen e'en to the mental eye;
For while their death-fraught mandates thou obey'st,
They seem the only paths of cloyless bliss.
And why of that frail body art thou proud?
How short, at longest, is the term of life!
And, oh! how oft, ere shines thy noontide sun,
Thou sleep'st, unknowing, in the gelid tomb?
Yea, while the tenure lasts, what cares and toils,
With never-ceasing clamour, gall thy rest;
Till too, too oft, e'en in fair Britain's realms,
Grim suicide steps forth, with demon frown,
And, by one thrust, doth soul and body part.

The bubble riches glitters in thy eye,
And on it, bright, seems happiness impress'd;
But though of that thou hadst thy heart's desire,
No comfort, joy, nor solace wouldst thou find,
When this great lesson thou hast left unlearn'd—
“With God's disposals always be content.”

And what of titles—man, now low indeed—
When breathing that too sublimated air?
The name's too mean which Deity bestow'd;
Hence to some stratagem we must resort,
To rid us of this fatal obloquy:
And kings and princes, with their endless train,
Lord o'er their fellows with despotic power.
Power, that gigantic champion, sits enthroned
With brazen sceptre, 'neath which millions groan,
And, by his nod, awes pining discontent,
And mire-clad drudgery, to their slave-like work—
Must too, at length, the ruler's voice forego,
When death, in horrent form—hell's nuncio grim—
Appears, beside the yew-surrounded grave,
Arm'd with that potent dart, of baleful point,
Venom'd in sin's terrific blazing forge,
To throw his fate—his endless destiny.
No figment this: the world's great victor see,
'Neath whose dire arm the Persian monarch sank,
Pallid and faint, on unrefreshing couch—
Now, in his turn, resigns his crown to death.

124

And mark him, too, who once gave Europe law,
Vaulting in all the arrogance of pride;
Now, lonely, on Helena's rock he sits,
With pensive eye bent on the foaming wave,
(True emblem of his envy-rankled soul,)
Despoil'd of all his stern magnific port,
Sullen yet calm, like castigated child,
Nor dares he rule earth's most ignoble slave.

Then why high-rate things of a birth so mean,
Or envy much the good which springs from earth?
That soul ought ne'er on time-girt themes to dwell
Whose native clime is heaven's illumined realm.
But, oh! how high, beyond conception's sight,
Are those keen transports which possess the soul,
In that pure intellectual region bless'd,
To man, thus stifled in gross matter's robe!
How high! when he essays to penetrate the veil
Which hangs, dark, waving round the hallow'd shrine!
Still wrapp'd in sense and sensitive delights,
What are his views? but those which Pagans feign;
Elysian joys, but alter'd in their form;
Their golden harps but tuned to other themes,
And gleaming courts, for flower-encircled bowers.
Yet should man's mind this mystic region scan
While here on earth? No: that were vain indeed:
He's made to serve his end, and this he doth
When he, with humble heart and contrite spirit, loves
His God supreme—his neighbour as himself.

And some have felt the antepast below
Of those true joys which lie in store above;
Have felt the pleasures which in raptures flow
From conscience unreproving, and God's smile,
His benediction, and his grace vouchsafed.
Yea, e'en among the agonies of death
Thousands have gloried, in this cause divine,
On racks and crosses, and on blazing piles,
Cheer'd and supported by that heavenly Power
Who works, unseen, within man's inmost core.
But now, bless'd thought! grim persecution's fled,
Rome's hand is fetter'd, and, throughout this land,
All may, as conscience dictates, serve the God

125

Who rules sole monarch of both earth and heaven,
Nor deputes a vicegerent here below
To lord supremacy o'er fellow-men.

Thou, who this freedom wrought'st by love, me guide,
And let me ne'er on life's fell hardships brood;
What things are only fit for me provide,
While wandering through life's vale of solitude.

A Prayer.

Mighty Lord of grace and glory,
Who transcendent reign'st above,
Here I prostrate lie before thee,
To implore thy saving love.

Like the drunkard in his vomit,
I in vice have wallow'd long,
Nor could reason turn me from it,
Arm'd with demonstration strong.

All around was dark and dreary,
Till the glorious gospel light
Burst the ebon gloom, to cheer me
While immured in sin's black night.

Then I saw my woeful nature
In more gloomy shades pourtray'd;
Darker seem'd each moral feature,
By the holy law display'd.

Let the matchless love of Jesus
On thy creature now descend,
Which from Satan's bondage frees us,
If on grace we sole depend.

May my sins be all forgiven
Through His all-atoning blood,
Which hath pathed the way to heaven
In an overflowing flood.

May the Holy Ghost, descending,
Kindle in my soul a flame,
Which, through every deed extending,
Still shall glorify Thy name.

126

Dark's the path I have to wander
Through this life, with snares beset;
Oh do Thou assistance render
To escape sin's fatal net!

Should the eye of fortune, smiling,
Shed its heart-deluding ray,
Save me from its dire beguiling
By thy grace, O Lord, I pray.

Or should poverty and sorrow
Be through life my constant lot,
May “Take no thought for to-morrow”
By me never be forgot.

Thus, by Thee through life protected,
I my journey shall pursue,
With my face to heaven directed,
And bright glory's crown in view.

And, when death shall overtake me,
In that dark and dreary hour,
Oh do Thou not then forsake me,
But on me thy Spirit shower.

Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
Who through boundless space dost reign,
This, my prayer, oh do Thou hear it,
And all praise be thine—Amen.

The Infanticide.

The blazing meteor brilliant shone,
And still the Magi wander'd on
From Persia's mountains, distant far,
Where first they spied the wondrous Star,
O'er hills, through glens and rivers, wending,
Still on their heavenly guide attending;
No toil, no travel do they mind,
Their sole wish, Judah's King to find;
And, inly by the Spirit led,
With joy their longsome way they sped:

127

The Tigris and Euphrates pass'd,
And parch'd Arabia's desert vast,
They reach the towers of Salem grand,
The pride of all the Holy Land.

Their habit strange and errand new
The eye of wonder on them drew;
For, quick, their fame like lightning ran
From city crowd to grave divan,
Till Herod, trembling, hears anon,
And, hearing, dreads a captive throne.

“I'm Judah's king,” the tyrant cries,
“And should one in rebellion rise,
He and his allies soon shall feel
The conq'ring power of Roman steel!
But bring these vagrants, and I'll hear
Why in this city they appear,
And set the whole in wild uproar,
Where peace serenely reign'd before.”

This said, the Magi straight are sought,
And to the haughty monarch brought,
Who sat in anxious troubled mood,
And o'er the strange report did brood.
Arrived, he stares them with an eye
Of wrath, deep mix'd with jealousy,
While they, unawed by courtly grandeur,
In all the glare of tyrant splendour,
Give answer calm to all required
By Herod, whom suspicion fired;
But each he bound, with strict behest,
When found of whom they were in quest,
The joyful news they back should bring,
That he might go and hail their King.

Dismiss'd, they onward hie again,
And now the Star illumes the plain;
With vertic beam and brighter flame
It burns o'er humble Bethlehem.

In poverty's most lowly guise
The Infant here, in slumber, lies
Clasp'd in his mother's fond embrace—
Content, though mean her resting place.

128

The Sages' hearts with joy o'erflow
While prostrated to Him they bow,
And, praising, gifts profuse bestow,
In wonder rapt that Power divine
Should through an infant's weakness shine.

With grateful hearts and tearful eyes,
On warm devotion's wings, arise
The parents' thanks to Jacob's God,
For cheering thus their lone abode
By timely aid, brought from afar,
When trouble seem'd all joy to mar.

Meanwhile did Herod's bosom burn,
With anxious wish, for the return
Of these sage pilgrims; but in vain,
For them he ne'er should see again:
By vision warn'd, they homeward stray,
To eastern lands, another way.

An angel, robed in heaven's bright beam,
Instructed Joseph by a dream,
Warning the kind and cautious sire
To fly from Herod's vengeful ire,
And refuge seek in Egypt's clime
Until the due appointed time.
Obedient to the heavenly call,
He flies, to shun the despot's thrall;
By night, by day, through drearest road,
The desert wilderness he trod;
By night's dews chill'd, by day's heat parch'd,
With meek submission, on they march'd,
Till safe arrived in that far land
Where Pharaohs long held sole command.

As from the bursting nitrous cloud
The awful thunder rattles loud;
As volleying Etna's baleful blast
Rolls out in lava-streams at last;
As, from the marshall'd lines of war,
Destruction bursts, with fatal jar;
So wrath, matured in Herod's soul,
Breaks forth, disdaining all control,
And nought can calm his demon-pride
But hell-advised Infanticide.

129

To execute his dire intent
A secret order out is sent,
Assembling all the sons of blood,
On Bethleh'ms streets to spread the flood
From the pure spring of infant hearts,
Pierced by their poniards, swords, and darts.

See, the black troop, with hellish frown,
Surrounds the calm but fated town.
What though all robed in pilgrim guise!
Souls base are louring through their eyes!
With weapons arm'd, much joy they'll blight
Before to-morrow's sun gives light.

The shades of night o'erspread the plain,
Soft slumbers slew the weary swain,
Quit was the lay of evening lark,
The dreary watch-dog ceased to bark,
The stray sheep dropp'd her woeful wail,
The crow did roost in woodland dale,
The sportive youths had left their play,
The saint had sung his vesper lay,
The miser summ'd his golden heap,
The mother lull'd her babe to sleep—
When murder's sable flag was rear'd,
Whereon grim death its crest appear'd,
As up the bolted doors were broke,
And parents—but to weep—awoke.
With sulphrous torches blazing blue
The murd'rers range the village through,
Waving the lamp of hell, to light
Them to the massacre this night.
The father, starting, quakes with fear,
The lights to see, the sound to hear;
The mother swoons, with terror wild,
Her latest grasp laid on her child;
The babe she fondled oft before
Now throbs, and welters in its gore.
From house to house th' assassins fly,
From street to street quick rings the cry
Of groaning sires, distracted mothers—
Of shrieking sisters, wailing brothers—

130

Till all the woeful village round
In blood and tears is drench'd and drown'd.
Resistance none could fathers make;
No sinew strung, each nerve did shake,
As sailors torpid struck with fear,
When, deeming that no danger's near,
Their vessel founders on the rock,
They stand confounded at the shock.

What alteration sad the sun
Displays, when, through the vapours dun
He darts, with red, effulgent beam,
On hill and vale, and lake and stream!
The sire he left in joyful air
Now sits o'ercome by black despair;
The mother singing to her child,
Now wails with bitter anguish wild;
The rosy infant, smiling once,
Now sleeps in death's eternal trance:
All pleasure's fled, and nought appears
But faces drown'd in grief and tears.
In vain the sympathising friend
His soothing counsel now doth lend;
In vain the sacred man of God
Drops comfort from the holy code;
In vain are nature's bounties spread—
The grieved soul recoils at bread;
For still the wildest wails of woe,
With floods of tears, afresh do flow.

As mourns the dove, both night and day,
When bears the kite her mate away,
No art revengeful can she try,
But only lives to mourn and cry,
So, 'gainst the cause of this event,
No bow of vengeance can be bent;
The bloody despot rests secure,
If conscience can the deed endure;
Nought can the injured do but mourn,
With throbbing bosoms, sadly torn.

With ceaseless toil the sexton groans,
While lab'ring 'mongst sepulchral stones;

131

All trench'd the dreary burying ground,
With mould'ring bones bestrew'd all round;
E'en he with rage infuriate burns
To dig the graves for infants' urns.
The carpenter, both day and night,
Toils, while with tears and sweat his sight
Is dimm'd, to answer the demand
For sable coffins through the land.
No bolt of fate was ever shed
Like that which burst o'er Bethleh'm's head.

Hour after hour the solemn bier,
With grieved attendants, doth appear;
Incessant sounds the dreary mould,
Immuring corpses stiff and cold;
And none the wond'ring trav'ller meets
But mourners on the roads and streets,
All bathed in tears, in sackcloth clad,
Downcast, heart-broken, wildly sad.
No more the darkness lulls to rest,
To nerve the hind, with toil oppress'd;
No more the cheerful dawn of day
Can chase the gloom of woe away;
No more of love the joyous song
Is heard the greenwood shades among,
Nor mirthful tale, at even-tide,
Around the blazing bright fireside:
But now the mother's weeping seen
At eve, lone, straying o'er the green,
To view her murder'd infants' tomb,
More drear by night's congenial gloom:
Oft sits she on the letter'd stone,
That says, “Sad dame, this is thy own
Dear child!” Here, with an absent eye,
Stern fix'd upon the spacious sky,
She ponders in her mind the joy
Hope proffer'd in her darling boy—
Her boy, now mould'ring in the dust,
A victim to a tyrant's lust.
Nor can her home amend her state,
While sorrow rules the die of fate;
All consolation still she flies,
And mourning lives, and mourning dies.

132

On Scepticism.

Who e'er could scan the infinite of space,
In which creation wheels with ample sweep,
Or what idea has the human mind
Of non-existence, ere time had her birth
From the wide womb of dread eternity?
None! Never mortal could take in the range
So wide, which wraps in darkness, as a shroud,
The corse of matter gross, and farther sweeps,
With outspread wings, than fancy can descry.

When Herschel heavenward points his telescope,
And views unnumber'd suns and systems roll
Where scarce blue ether to his eye appears,
So thick these radiant orbs before him glance,
Thick as the dew-drops on the morning field,
What sees he of this shoreless continent?
Nought—but the foreground of infinity.
And yet the tenants of this atom world,
Whose stinted minds scarce know the right from wrong,
Will wield and manage the high attributes
Or Him who, out of nothing, gave them life!
Oh! had they but the feelings of the brutes,
That bend submissive to their masters' yoke,
Then would they shudder at the impious thought
Of aiming to explore God's mysteries;
A thought as blasphemous as it is vain.

Hark how the sensualist, with daring front,
Storms at the laws design'd to lead to joy,
And sees in God no attribute but Love,
Dragging, as 'twere, his Justice captive-bound.
There too the sceptic, with blasphemous tongue,
Doubts all beyond his reason's shallow depth,
And breathes defiance to the Deity,
Because he dwells beyond the reach of sense—
Dwells in that realm where never eye shall beam;
Where only Faith, the pilgrim, finds the way.
As in a circle all the radii
Are equidistant from the central point,
So all God's attributes, though infinite,
In him, the centre, do harmonious meet.

133

And, oh! how wondrous to the human soul
Seem these perfections, that they should agree:
See Justice stern with Mercy mingle tears;
Anger, with flashing eye, mild Love embrace;
Truth, sworn off sinners to exact the debt,
Yield to the plaint of sad Forgiveness.

Nor lies this wonder only in himself;
For those who frown defiance 'gainst His throne
Carry, in their own frame, what quite as far
Transcends their knowledge as the King of heaven
Doth in his nature baffle their attempts
To find his ways of working here below.
The soul—of pure and unsubstantial mould,
Where length, breadth, depth, can no connection claim,—
The body—gross, of rude material make,—
Are join'd together by some law unseen;
But that fine bond of union let them tell
Ere we list to their soph'sms 'gainst their God.
Or, sages—since that name you arrogate—
Tell whence that law, which keeps in order due
The universe, which you attraction call!
Whence every atom of its mother globe,
If disengaged in the atmosphere,
Drops t'ward the centre, as if loth to fly,
Ungratefully, from where it first had birth.
The effect you see, the cause you cannot tell;
Confess and yield, and quit yourselves like men.

A God there is! all nature shouts aloud:
And since, by nature, we bewilder'd are
In all our most minute inquiries keen,
Then give to Faith the helm, though reason fail,
To bear our bark into the haven safe;
Lest on the shelves of ruin we be cast,
To mourn our wreck through all eternity.

“All is Vanity and Vexation of Spirit.”

Let not ambition spoil thy rest,
That demon of the human breast;
Though oft in seemly garbage dress'd,
Its end is only misery.

134

Whate'er the wish, whate'er the prize,
That dazzles thy bewitched eyes,
The ignis-fatuus from thee flies,
For all is nought but Vanity.

Think not that titles, wealth, and fame,
On earth can all the pleasure claim;
Oft poverty, without a name,
Enjoys more sweet serenity.

The king who sat on Judah's throne
Made every joy on earth his own;
Yet plain declares to every one,
“All earthly joy is Vanity.”

What scorpion-torments rend the breast
Where wealth displays her dragon-crest!
Nor day nor night can bring them rest
Who hunt the phantom Vanity.

The haughty fair who trips the street,
In all the show of dress complete,
Though gay she seems, doth often meet
Neglect—which cries, “All's Vanity.”

Oh were she but so wise as know
Small happiness is found below,
More joy she'd meet, and feel less woe.
Earth holds not true felicity.

With ceaseless rage her bosom's burning;
At fate's sour look she's ever spurning;
Of cold mischance knows every turning;
But still finds all is Vanity.

Nor dwells this only with the fair:
Our dandies too its horrors share;
Who hunt for fortunes everywhere—
But find full oft “all's Vanity.”

The warrior—who through fields of blood
Drives, keen to pull fame's rosy bud—
But meets, when cross'd the troubled flood,
The airy phantom Vanity.

How drear the time when all is o'er!
And he, on life's remotest shore,
Sees thousands weltering in their gore
Through his unbounded Vanity!

135

Where'er he looks, where'er he flies,
The ghastly picture still he 'spies;
And, black and wild, before him lies
A dismal dark eternity!

Oh what would thousands such have given,
When, to despair's dark cavern driven,
Had they obey'd the voice of Heaven?
Which cries aloud, “All's Vanity.”

Nor holds this law to crimes alone
Which make creation loudly groan;
Each pleasure's crest has stamp'd thereon,
“All earthly joy is Vanity.”

How short our rapt'rous moments last?
Like clouds before the sweeping blast!
Like surging tides receding fast!
And all at last is Vanity.

The summer flower in beauty blows,
And, sun-ward, fair its bosom shows;
But, evening come, its leaves soon close;
So death ends all our Vanity.

In that lone house the weary rest;
There sighs no more the soul oppress'd;
There finds the saint a haven bless'd,
Beyond the reach of Vanity.

The Mahometan Pilgrim.

From the green plains of Midian Aretas did stray
To the temple of Mecca, to pay his devotion;
Breezy evening approach'd at the exit of day,
For the sun sank beyond the Egyptian ocean.

He had wash'd his feet in a clear cooling spring,
And partaken what supper his scrip did contain,
With his hymn made the whole Caravansary ring,
While devotion did soar with his echoing strain.

He had sunk in soft slumbers upon his straw bed,
And the dreams of his Prophet did float in his mind;
He did fancy himself to Elysium led,
Where he left earth's perplexities far, far behind.

136

He dream'd that the land was delightfully gay,
With groves, flowers, and pleasant streams, bless'd past compare;
And many a clear winding streamlet did stray,
By whose verdant banks never frown'd sordid care.

In this bless'd abode he the 'habitants heard,
With their voices immortal, glad chanting their numbers;
When, sudden around, fancy's visions were marr'd
By the rude clang of arms, which dispell'd his sweet slumbers.

“Arouse! to arms, each man of might!
For now depart the shades of night.”
(Aretas heard, not far away,
This was the call of Morgavay
The robber, with his fearless band,
The scourge and terror of the land;
Who shortly paused, and, in a trice,
Again was heard his awful voice.)
“Rise, friends, to march with utmost speed,
The pursuit of the foe I dread;
Their vengeance, roused to utmost height,
May prompt perhaps to deeds of might:
But, lest they chance to find our rout,
For treach'rous spies look all about;
And each we meet, or friend or foe,
Must feel the dagger's fatal blow.
Within yon Caravansary,
Perchance, some pilgrim there may lie;
Haste, therefore, haste, with utmost speed,
And all you find, quick, make them bleed.”

Aretas heard his orders dire—
Appall'd, distracted. His desire
To execute, his scouts drew nigh,
Who pull'd their morglays from the thigh.
Aretas fell on bended knee,
And begg'd that they would let him free;
Told them, for Mecca he was bound,
To see the Prophet's natal ground;
No spy he'd prove, though he should meet
Their rude pursuers, bold and fleet:
If rage were e'er to pity changed,
He had e'en now been from his ire estranged.

137

But pity they knew not, so struck him to death;
With a look of forgiveness he, fainting, expired:
On the name of his Prophet he spent his last breath,
While his saint-like demeanor his en'mies admired.

His corpse they soon hid in the light fleeting sand,
Lest the action should lead to discover their track:
Long his friends wish'd in vain for his company bland,
But, alas! poor Aretas did never come back.

The Waes o' Ambition;

Or, THE RUIN O' GLENMUIR.

CANTO FIRST.

While autumn tinges a' the woods wi' yellow,
And summer hies far southward o'er the lea,
While winter's prelude rises, wild but mellow,
Frae birds in hazle, row'n, and birken tree;
While Scotia sits, wi' tear bedazzled e'e,
On Goatfell's tap, and views the vessels glide,
Bearing her sons, wha ranged her hills ance free,
To toil in lands beyond the Atlantic tide—
I choose the season sad to wail the Waes o' Pride.

I sing not how, 'mong bright seraphic powers,
The syren sprang, and millions then beguiled;
Nor how she enter'd Eden's rosy bowers,
And, by her wiles, man frae his bliss exiled;
But how, o'er Scotia's dells, where sweetly smiled
Blithe faced content, o' conscience ever pure,
Ambition rages, like a fury wild!
Spreadin', baith far and wide, her balefu' lure;
And spill'd the peace at last o' happy gay Glenmuir.

Glenmuir was lang the seat o' joy and peace,
The patrimony o' sage Robin Roy,
Whase sire it left him, at his ain decease,
Without mortgage or bond him to annoy.
Pure independence was his boast and joy,

138

And likewise o' his umquhile brave forbears,
Wha lent a han' vile popery to destroy,
When Knox's nervous reas'ning struck their ears,
And, Calvin's cause to prop, they wielded swords and spears.

In aftertimes too, when, o'er brae and bog,
Monmouth and Graham their fiend-like forces led,
Glenmuir his braid-sword wielded at Drumclog,
And was at Bothwell-brig the last that fled;
But met that nicht a cauld and bluidy bed;
On Earnock field he slept amang the slain:
His friends at hame lang listen'd for his tread,
But his blithe face they never saw again:
He fell a martyr there, to close life's troublous scene.

Such was good Robin's ancient pedigree;
Men wise, religious, and, in danger, brave,
Who served their God with true fidelity,
But spurn'd, ilk ane, to be a tyrant's slave.
And Robin was in noucht behind the lave,
Which could man's real value aggrandise;
To vice's tale no listening ear he gave;
Her wanton gait he ever did despise,
For still his mind was fix'd on themes beyond the skies.

Heaven had him bless'd wi' plenty, and a heart
That ne'er unmoved could witness misery;
Want never frae his door was let depart
Withouten joy bright beamin' frae her e'e:
But the rude voice o' bedlam revelry
Was ne'er heard ring beneath his peacefu' roof;
The vicious still did frae his presence flee,
For sin frae wisdom ever stands aloof;
But, should they e'er intrude, they met his fell reproof.

The war-worn soldier, hirplin o'er the lea,
When low the sun sets in the crimson'd west,
Rejoices when Glenmuir's wide-spread ash tree
He sees, assured he's still a welcome guest;
For ofttimes has he there got food and rest,
In summer hot and winter raging chill,
And tauld sic tales o' war, when danger press'd,
As gart their hearts wi' sympathy aft thrill,
And aft the glitt'ring tear their guileless een wad fill.

139

But spaewives, skill'd in mystic glamour fell,
Met here nae countenance to their black art;
Still were they deem'd the instruments o' hell,
And without alms were ever bid depart:
But blind, and lame, and orphans, ne'er did smart
'Neath hunger wan, or Boreas' bitter blast;
Here food and shelter cheer'd the drooping heart,
By pallid woe's bleak howling storm o'ercast,
And bade the present smile at troubles o' the past.

If cheerfu' virtue can impart delight,
When by the female bosom-friend display'd,
In this was Robin bless'd; for never wight
Could boast, through life's rough maze, o' sweeter aid.
Hers was the heart where nae base passion sway'd
The iron sceptre—all was heavenly mild;
The wife, the mother, without vain parade,
Still shone conspicuous, and wi' joy beguiled
Care frae the husband's brow, and pleased the fretting child.

This made his hame an ever lovely scene
O' bliss—frae which noucht e'er could him allure;
Nae market revel ever could detain,
Till midnight hour, the laird o' sweet Glenmuir:
Its inmates ever could to him secure
Such blinks o' earthly joy as beam on man,
Since sunk in sin's deep baleful slough impure;
And still through Robin's soul that pleasure ran
Which only's felt by those who follow virtue's plan.

To train his children in the fear of God
Was ever his endeavour late and air;
Nor did his conduct mark a counter road,
For all his actions show'd the sire sincere.
His only son, his namesake and his heir,
A father's future joy did clear bespeak;
His only daughter—virtuous and fair,
The lure o' beauty smilin' on her cheek,
Show'd all her mother's grace—was modest, mild, and meek.

Next to religion, 'twas his greatest care
To burnish bright their intellectual powers
Wi' a judicious course o' human lare,
Which decks the mental field wi' bloomin' flowers:
And aften wad he pass his leisure hours,

140

In sultry summers, on the verdant sward,
Instructing them, beneath the shady bowers
O' bourtree that surround the auld grass yard,
Or heark'nin' if for school their lessons were prepared.

Thus rose his fam'ly charming to his mind,
The boast and envy o' the country roun',
By education's glorious power refined,
To shine conspicuous in life's fervid noon.
But, ah! how little thought he, all the boon
On them bestow'd contain'd the seeds o' woe!
Refinement often fosters pride, which soon
To boundless-soul'd ambition rank doth grow:
Then fareweel evermair to joy's ecstatic glow!

How little think the wistful parents kind
What griefs they seek, when, fond, they long to see
To manhood grown their children dear! but blind
Is human hope to future destiny.
The prattlin' child, placed on the father's knee
In health's sweet bloom, beguiles his cares away;
Or, gaily sporting on the flowery lea,
Ere harlot vice can lure his heart astray,
Yields to his parents joys that with his years decay.

As fades the lovely charms o' summer morn,
When clouds arise and dim the lamp of heaven;
As reels the vessel, o'er rude ocean borne,
When for the calm the scowling tempest's given:
So wanes parental bliss, when youth is driven
By passion's tide or adverse fortune's blast,
Till every joy on earth be from them riven,
And on the sterile shore o' want they're cast,
Where ever gath'ring gloom o'erwhelms the soul at last.

Arrived at manhood, wi' a burnish'd mind,
Young Robin ill could brook a rustic's toil;
Some other business, o' a gentler kind,
He long'd to try, where ease and splendour smile:
Hence to his father, wi' ilk cautious wile,
He by degrees his specious plan disclosed—
Whose honest soul, unskill'd in trade's sly guile,
His loving son's intention ne'er opposed;
The mother too warm hail'd the phantom now proposed.

141

Soon execution follow'd the design,
While glitt'ring grandeur rode the car of hope;
So he in Glasgow town, where knaves aft shine,
Set up a gaudy weel-fill'd grocery shop:
And here his active mind got rowth o' scope,
For village hucksters soon found out his dwellin';
Yet they ere lang proved but a faithless prop,
When on his han' accounts and bills were swellin',
And they, for goods received, 'gainst payment were rebellin'.

His sister Mary too did fond aspire
To taste the gay allurements o' the town,
To leave the labour o' the field and byre,
And learn to wake the sweet piano's soun'.
This new establishment, sae quick brocht roun',
Form'd a new era sad to guid Glenmuir;
For rapid hurl'd the bolt of ruin down
On that calm scene o' pleasure, ance sae pure,
And blighted a' the joy that hope seem'd to secure.

The anxious parents now were left alane
In rural dulness, but in heart unite,
Withouten care their bosoms kind to pain,
Save for their children's weal, their sole delight;
For whom was mony a prayer, frae hearts upright,
Sent heavenward, warm on faith's fleet-bounding wing,
That grace would screen them from sin's fatal blight,
Which galls the soul wi' torture's keenest sting,
And turns to winter's gloom the cheerfu' joys o' spring.

CANTO SECOND.

As, on her nuptial morn, the blooming bride
Awakes wi' joy bright beaming in her eye,
And thinks the fleeting hours reluctant glide,
That waft on wings of love the sacred tie;
So hope, on speculation's summits high,
Shows golden visions to her vot'ries vain,
For which they long, wi' mony an ardent sigh,
Possession o' the glitterin' toy to gain,
And fret at tardy fate, and burn wi' inward pain.

142

Life has its joys, though mingled still wi' care:
Could blind humanity the path pursue,
She might obtain o' those her ample share,
And shun the thorns that pierce her bosom through;
But base ambition, unopposed by few,
Inserts her Vampire fangs to drain the heart,
Then, quick, the fated victim bids adieu
To pleasure's thrill, for now he's left to smart
'Neath the corrosive pangs o' his envenom'd dart.

And now young Robin may take leave o' a'
That can gi'e lasting joy to man below,
Since borne by pride's propelling gale awa'
Frae calm Glenmuir to scenes o' polish'd woe:
Here affectation's garnish'd cheek may glow,
Here learning's sentimental e'e may smile,
Here wealth may dazzle wi' his gaudy show,
Yet scarce be fit the moments to beguile,
For deep within the core may torture reign the while.

Nae mair to him can rural scenery bring
The tide o' raptures, or delight his e'e;
Nae mair to him the mavis sweet doth sing,
At morn or eve, within the birken tree;
Nae mair the fragrance o' the clover lea,
Or hawthorns sweet, or honeysuckles please,
Or soothing murmurs o' the eident bee,
Saft swelling 'mang the foliage o' the trees,
Or glens o' yellow broom, that scent the fanning breeze.

Scarce dares he mention, 'midst his fellows gay,
His birthplace, or his hamely parents own,
Lest notions mean his lineage should betray,
Amang the belles and beaus throughout the town,
Till he his sire persuaded to pu' down
The ivy shaded mansion, stained by time,
That despicable to his sight had grown,
Though deem'd for lang to be of ernes the prime,
And raise a villa gay, to suit his views sublime.

Razed frae its site, it soon in rubbish lay,
The clasping woodbine frae its roots uptorn,
And nought to mark its boundary is let stay,
Except the bourtree, row'n, and ancient thorn.
Its very name can now nae mair be borne,

143

So much it savours o' the barren wild;
To please the fancy, and elude a' scorn,
Rosebank its gay successor now is styled,
At whase fair form our youth wi' inward pleasure smiled.

The auld folk likewise found their dwellin' new,
Though costly, mair adapted to their ease;
Nae driftin' snaws through doors and windows blew,
Nor chillin' frosts, that maist the blood wad freeze.
Adown futurity the sire now sees
His branchin' offspring high in honour rise;
E'en linked in close connection wi' grandees;
And sic like pageantry as fancy spies,
When through her airy bounds ambition's meteor flies.

Commercial labours now haud a' asteer;
Wide ramifies his trade, and eke his fame,
And village hucksters to his shop draw near,
Proud to be ranked debtors to the same.
Rosebank's hale produce here doth shelter claim—
Potatoes, barley, meal, eggs, butter, cheese—
A's here deposited, but naught sent hame,
Whilk kindles up suspicion by degrees,
And trade's vague phantom false fu' clear the auld man sees.

But still the younkers' fancies soar sublime,
As yet they bask in joy's bright gilded morn,
And pleasure's tinkling strings concordant chime,
While plenty waves her full ambrosial horn.
On speculation's fairy wings upborne,
They deem all meet that glitters a-la-mode;
Those who think else are subject to their scorn,
And shunn'd as cannibals, grotesque and odd;
Ne'er named but wi' disdain in their superb abode.

O' a' the nymphs that gaily trip the street,
Attended by the Cyprian archer boy,
Nane wore the attractin' smile o' love mair sweet,
Amang them a', than bonnie Mary Roy.
The rest o' mony youths she did destroy,
Smit by the glances o' her dark-blue een;
Nae concert, ball, or festival o' joy
Took place, but she in peerless light was seen,
Chaste as Diana fair, gay as the Cyprian queen.

144

But well she knew her charms, and still aspired
To higher steps on grandeur's slipp'ry scale;
Yet, though in gorgeous robes ilk day attired,
Less joy she felt than when she trode the vale
Wi' gowans clad, while she the milkin' pail,
At morn or eve, bore frae the bught or shiel;
Or liltit owre in sang the lover's tale,
Beside the cheery ingle, at her wheel,
Unknown to envious pride, which peace doth ever steal.

Blithe was the beau wha, for a Sunday jaunt,
Permission gain'd sweet Mary to escort
To gay Rosebank, and a' day idly flaunt
Amang the groves and streams o' that resort.
At first the sire view'd sic unhallow'd sport
Wi' inward grief, and on his brow a frown;
But ne'er could he sic reverence extort
Frae them as he to heaven was wont to own—
Which when neglected still draws retribution down.

Changed is the scene frae what it was in yore,
When on the Sabbath he, by break of day,
The Bible's sacred pages to explore,
Retired beneath the hawthorn's flowery spray—
While saft the streamlet murmur'd on its way,
And shrill the lark sang o'er the dewy dale—
As he frae Ur with Abram wide did stray,
Or heard the weeping prophet sore bewail
For Zion's dreadful doom, through guilt that did prevail.

But rattlin' gigs, and troops o' hackney steeds,
And talk profane, sae void o' ought that's holy,
Aft made auld Robin rue some bypast deeds,
And heave the burden'd sigh of melancholy;
The sermon barter'd for vain tales o' folly,
And private duties lost in sinfu' cookin';
Although austere amidst thae merchants jolly,
Much err'd he in sic conduct not rebukin',
When his ain fam'ly's wae lay in sic deeds o'erlookin'.

This blazing meteor soon its lustre spent,
And ruin waved his desolating arm;
Losses and luxury, quite headlong, sent
To trustees' hands Rosebank's weel plenish'd farm.
Auld Robin, thunderstruck at the alarm

145

O' this mishap, in silent sorrow grieved;
Nae ray o' hope appear'd, wi' soothin' charm,
To reinstate them, thus sae sair deceived
By trade's delusive glare, which they for truth believed.

The shop's now shut, and sequestration made—
Nae mercy has the law's black menial gang—
And grim oblivion shores her deepest shade
To throw out-owre the name o' Roy ere lang.
Nae mair again to them the mavis' sang,
Frae their ain trees, at morn or e'en shall ring;
Nae mair they'll tent their flocks the broom amang,
While list'ning to the lark's sweet carolling,
Where, tinklin' frae its source, clear flows the caller spring.

But indigence appears in blackest hue,
Ilk future scene of being to pervade;
How sad to them, wha want before ne'er knew,
To sit obscurely 'neath her balefu' shade!
'Tween debts and property a balance made,
What yet remain'd their ain did clearly show.
With grief in every feature deep pourtray'd
Rosebank they leave—heart-rending scene of woe!
And o'er th' Atlantic waves to Canada they go.

O Scotia! why desert thy wonted ways?
Why barter peace for vague uncertain gain?
Oh cast an e'e on thy departed days,
When in thy children's manners was no stain—
When independence roam'd the hill and plain,
Unknown to every vice—and fear'd nae foe!
May they yet frae Ambition's wiles refrain:
Hence deathless wealth shall through thy regions flow,
And every heart shall feel true pleasure's ardent glow.

On Genius.

Ye Sages, me tell what can learning impart,
If the rich ore of Genius lies not in the heart?
Why strive ye to burnish the crude gloomy mind,
When no gleams of the true innate gem ye can find?

146

Ah! Sires, I can tell you, she lies not in lore,
Nor dwells she where riches and affluence soar;
For the greatest of dunces return from your schools,
And the great, we oft find, are the veriest fools.

Oh hail! gift of Nature, which wealth cannot buy,
Descendant divine of the star-spangled sky;
Who, heedless, will pass by the gold-garnish'd wight,
On the drudge in oblivion's hid realms to alight.

She loathes e'en to surfeit the jargon of schools;
Her soul spurns to stoop to the foible of rules;
She sees, with one glance of her quick mental eye,
What the dolt, in a month's demonstration, can't spy.

Thee, Newton! I place next the race of the gods,
For the most thou didst know of their laws and abodes;
Who, from principles simple, didst draw all thy ken;
For ever thou'lt stand at the head of wise men.

O Milton! who taught thee to strike the sweet lyre?
From what coal of heaven didst thou catch the bright fire?
From Genius, imprimis, which learning refined,
And show'd to the world thy unlimited mind.

But, Shakespeare! where found'st thou thy bold-featured muse?
And whence didst thou bring thy bright costume profuse?
From nature, I ween—nowhere else could it be,
When the fates had consign'd thee to black poverty.

And where, matchless Crichton! in what happy shade,
Didst thou find out Genius, the heaven-born maid?
Thou found'st her unsought, thou exception 'mong mortals,
Who wast most ignobly consign'd to death's portals!

Great Burns! bright example of nature's donation,
The gift it was grand, although humble thy station;
Thy sweet loreless harp shall with ecstacy ring
When the cant lyres of pedants shall wear not a string.

Thou fruit tree spontaneous, O Genius—on which
No tame graft from learning thy fruit can enrich—
I love thee, admire thee, adore thee, divine,
And bow down and worship before thy rich shrine.

147

Kilbride Kirk's most Sincere Thanks

TO THE HERITORS AND OTHERS WHO CONTRIBUTED SO LIBERALLY TO HER RECENT REPAIRS.

Ye wha ha'e tholed the burnin' pain
O' stan'in' in the Pass alane,
Wi' thumpin' heart, and reelin' brain,
And sweatin' face,
Ken something o' the life I've haen
O' fell disgrace.

For five and forty years I've borne
The country's spitefu' jeers and scorn;
Wi' burnin' wrath lang inly torn,
I've lain in scandal,
Despised like vagrant Jew forlorn,
Or plund'rin' Vandal.

But now that enmity is gane
By whilk I lang did sigh and grane,
And my proud spire and gilded vane
Triumphant rise,
Since jarring discord now lies slain,
Wi' closed eyes.

Whae'er alive did think to see
Sic reparation wrought on me,
Wham nei'bour kirks, wi' pridefu' e'e,
Spurn'd frae their quorum;
But now I preses sit, fu' spree,
Wi' great decorum.

Nae mair shall folk in terror dread
The danger o' a broken head,
Frae Bibles tumblin' doun, like lead
Aff Spoutie's railin',
Aft clourin' crouns wi' spitefu' feid;
To fricht ne'er failin'.

Nae mair shall menseless dogs, wha aft
Held revels on the Muirland laft,
Tak' front seats there—that look'd sae daft
In sic a place;
The braw boun' front keeps tykes abaft
Frae shawin' face.

148

Nor yet shall ony darker stark
Lie gruntin' at the hour o' wark;
But quick maun spring up, like the lark,
When, clean pell-mell,
John waukens sleep, be 't licht or dark,
Wi' 's sax-hour bell.

And, blithe, at e'en the joyous soun'
Is heard the country roun' and roun';
Glad news to mony a weary loun
At labour toilin',
Wi' head maist to the grund bow'd doun,
And sweat outboilin'.

But waefu' news to alewives fell,
When wabsters bauld and souters snell
Meet owre a dram, their news to tell,
At the week's en',
Is the ungracious curfew bell,
Loud rung at ten.

For trottin' clocks nae discount's gi'en,
Though to religion's truest frien';
Mine's still the test, at morn and e'en,
Of ony wicht
Wha'd break the holy morn unseen,
When planted richt.

Thanks to you a', wha, blithe and jolly,
Ha'e hearts unkenn'd to melancholy,
Wha left the beaten track o' folly
And raised my spire,
While faes out vented mony a volley
O' oaths, in ire.

And my best wishes unto you
Wha ranged the toun and country through
To raise a clock and dials too,
For use and beauty;
Ye were still eident, stainch, and true
To this your duty.

Nae mair dare bards satiric banter
My saul 'bout ellwand-steepled Blantyre;

149

I'll learn the Muse to blaw her chanter
To ither airs;
I've play'd my nei'bours a mishanter
Ilk ane declares.

Frae Logoch muirs to banks o' Clyde
My bell resounds thus far and wide;
Our bonnet-lairds, sae fu' o' pride,
Fu' crouse may craw,
And owre the Mearns' nabs vogie ride,
And taunt them a'.

For mony a time, at their fell jeerin',
Our esquires ha'e been set a-swearin',
And claes frae aff their backs been tearin',
In change-house wars;
But wi' my gawdy steeple's rearin'
Has fled sic jars.

John Riddell, Beadle at that time.

An Elegy

On the Death of the Kilbride Beadle, Charles Mair.

O death! thou base and treach'rous loun,
Wha flees the country roun' and roun',
Again thou hast come through our toun,
Wi' dagger bare,
And hew'd thy nearest nei'bour doun,
Poor Charlie Mair.

Perfidious deed! how could you do it?
Ere lang, I trow, ye'll sairly rue it;
To gi'e thy gard'ner sic a flewet,
Wha still rejoiced
When thy black ensign he did view it
By thee up hoised.

Kilbride may sigh, and greet, and moan,
And stitch her doolfu' weepers on,
Since her auld Beadle's fairly gone,
Ne'er to return:
Cauld on his back he lies, ochone!
Within death's urn.

150

Wi' asthmas lang he pechtan grain'd,
And gravel-pangs richt sair him pain'd;
Yet, while ae spark o' health remain'd,
Fu' fain wad he
Inspect the lairs, wi' sorrow feign'd,
When ane did die.

Syne wad he fetch his shankin tools,
His pinches, mattocks, spades, and shools,
And raise in heaps the putrid mools
On ilka side,
Mix'd wi' the pows o' saints and fools,
Now close allied.

Aft, wi' his colleague Robin Aiton,
The black procession he wad wait on;
Or, frae the bell arouse the wae-tone,
Wi' doolfu' din;
Or, fast as trouts do seize the bait on,
The cash draw in.

Though he in death's drear shambles toil'd,
An occupation dull and wild,
Yet wha than Charlie blither smiled
Out owre a gill,
Or time wi' better jokes beguiled
Beside gude yill.

In some mad freak, wanchancie nature
Had him denied ilk manly feature,
And burden'd wi' a humph the creature,
His patience tryin';
But yet he wore a saul o' stature
Micht saired O'Brien.

Though he, in early life, was bred
To tug at auld King Crispin's trade,
Yet easier ways to earn his bread
He aim'd at still;
To assassinate a sheep weel-fed,
And sell a gill.

Forbye, he held that occupation
Contemned by folk in ilka station—

151

A beagle—omen o' vexation,
By poind or summons;
For wham they leave their habitation,
And skulk on commons.

The fumbler club, wi' ruefu' faces,
May sair lament their umquhile preses,
For he the brunt o' their disgraces
Did bear for lang;
And jockies at our summer races,
Our days o' thrang.

Owre Kittoch-brig afttimes he trode,
But now he'll nae mair gang that road,
To wauchle wi' the holy code
Owre to the kirk:
Death's claucht him to his ain abode,
Cauld, drear, and mirk.

And now upon his verdant grave
The gowans bloom and nettles wave;
But since he's left nae heir, to save
His name frae death,
We'll on his headstane deep engrave
As underneath.

EPITAPH.

Incog.! hic jacet Charles Mair,
Unbless'd wi' male or female heir:
A spouse he had, baith kind and tender,
But barren as the neuter gender.
Although his soul hath left his body,
As steam sublimely soars frae toddy;
And though the worms his carcase share a',
While it lies happed subter terra—
Yet when the dreadful trump of doom
Calls forth the vassals of the tomb,
Revived, to bliss he forth may come,
More fair than beauteous Absalom.

152

Allan Bane's Dream.

Auld Allan Bane, the clachan souter,
Although nae sceptic, was a doubter
O' things that thwarted common sense;
But he to lare had nae pretence;
Nae help got he frae schule or college,
Yet still he grasped after knowledge;
At auld buik-stan's wared mony a bodle
For volumes that maist crazed his noddle;
Read baith th' abettors and cross parties
Of Norris, Locke, and sage Des Cartes,
Wha treat on matter and on spirit
Sae nice, they maist ding folk deleiret.

To midnicht Allan aft sat porin',
Thae metaphysic themes explorin',
'Bout observation and reflection,
Which they explain wi' nice dissection;
'Bout time, infinity, and space,
And, eke, the spirit's resting place;
And whiles, by logic's deep inspection,
They would disprove the resurrection.

Scarce ane cam' in to get shoon cloutit
But Allan rhymed and raved about it,
Till folk began to doubt his creed,
And Meg his wife began to dread
That, soon or syne, he'd craze his head.

But noucht sae harass'd Allan's brain
As when they labour'd to explain
The palace o' the inner man,
And a' his outs and ins to scan.
Ane proved, by demonstration grand,
His dwellin' was the pineal gland;
For there the nerves, frae ilka station,
Brought in the tidings o' sensation,
As aide-de-camps, on wings o' win',
Wi' news unto the marshal rin:
Anither would as plainly shaw
It had nae special hame ava,

153

But could at pleasure rantin' gae
Through ilka bore, frae tap to tae.

Ae nicht, wi' contrair notions vex'd,
He gaed to bed richt sair perplex'd:
Yet, though in's head sic thochts were swimmin',
He dover'd owre, and fell a' dreamin'
How that his body and his saul
Coost out, and had this bitter brawl.

Soul.
'Tis strange, auld nei'bour, folk's sae doitit
As tuilyie 'bout how we're united;
And try, by logic, that vain foible,
To contradict the holy Bible,
Wi' siccan metaphysic wraith
That they would kow the wings o' faith
Wi' reason's shears, that she might sten'
Nae farther than their narrow ken.
Vain fools! trowth, they ha'e shallow powers
Wha think this clumsy frame o' yours
Wad e'er allow them, while we're join'd,
To judge correctly wi' their mind,
When they receive their ilka notion
Frae jumpin' nerves, in panic motion,
Wha tell them many a sinfu' lee,
Syne a' the blame lies aye on me.
Thus, by your means, I'm wrang'd richt sair,
In spite o' a' their college lare:
Though no the thief, you're the resetter,
Which, in the law, is little better.

Body.
'Deed, frien', the naked truth to tell,
Thae blades are something like yoursel',
As scant o' that rare thing ca'd sense
As they're o' oucht approachin' mense.
Ilk ane still mak'st his only aim
His nei'bour rival to defame;
Or else, their bedlam notions screening
'Neath words devoid o' oucht like meaning,
Their contradictors' een they steek,
And hide themsel's amang the reek.

154

But what the sorrow tempteth thee,
Wi' brazen front, to rave and lee?
Less jeerin', else ye'se bide the brunt
O' what wad ither folk affront.

Soul.
Vile bag o' dirt! think ye that I
Dread oucht comes frae your stinkin' stye?
What mind wad heed your brawlin' scandal?
Ye rude, unfeelin', graceless Vandal;
Sae brutal are your hail desires
That frae you naething great transpires.
A miser ye're o' every meanness;
A stews, for knavery and uncleanness;
Whase filthy appetites appear
Unquenchable wi' oucht that's here;
Which gars me pine, in deep vexation,
Till death—that blessed separation.

Body.
Mean, lewd! guid guide's, whar now is conscience,
That suffers sic infernal nonsense
To bellow frae that fiend o' pride,
And sober hamely folk deride?
'Tis past the power o' tongue to say
What filthy notions, nicht and day,
Rin through your head, ye beast uncivil,
And constant colleague o' the devil.
Some graceless plot ye're ever plannin',
And God's ain law richt aften bannin',
That fetters sae your inclination,
Ye basest wretch o' the creation!
Yet still on me ye lay the blame,
And say sic plans I foremost frame,
And slander far and near my name.

Soul.
Wi' sic low fools 'tis vain to reason;
Advice to you's aye out o' season;
Wha claver on, wi' jargon mean,
Because ye are nae farther seen.
Know ye but oucht o' nature's laws—

155

Body.
Aye, aye! like you, wi' B's and A's;
And drive the truth clean heels-owre-head—
I'd be a prodigy indeed.

Soul.
Instructor base! Come, keep decorum.

Body.
Ay, like the Academic forum;
To list to your bombastic blethers,
As licht's a goupin o' hen feathers.

Soul.

Accursed pest o' the creation,
I'se let ye feel my castigation,
That ye may learn, for time to come,
To speak wi' mense, or else sit dumb!

Wi' that they closed, and fierce did grapple:
The soul claucht fast the body's thrapple,
And held sae firm, he wad him choked,
And noosed him sae that bluid out bocked.

But Allan, turnin' in his lair,
Soon put to flicht this vile nicht-mare;
Yet for some time could scarce compose him,
Sae lap his agitated bosom:
Syne, neist, he tried t' investigate
The spring and cause o' this debate,
And fand it had its fountain fair
Amang his metaphysic lare:
Therefore, wi' nervous resolution,
He raised an ordeal persecution,
And brunt the philosophic nest
That had sae troubled him in rest,
And did his brain a' day molest.

156

The Revel of Riot.

“When hopes are gone, and life forlorn,
Perhaps thou'lt wish thyself unborn.”
Robertson of Struan.

Dame Riot, held, by long renown,
The leading model of the town,
Sent round her cards of invitation
To those of noted reputation,
To dine, drink tea, and spend the night
In dancing, until morning light.
The guests quick to their toilets flew,
To deck themselves in order due;
For cost and beauty each did try
His and her neighbours to outvie;
In silks and satins, gauze and lace,
They were equipp'd with playhouse grace;
With lard and rouge bedaubed o'er,
To banish time's intrenching power;
With beads and sparkling gems they shone,
And for the fete set out anon,
In hopes that pleasure's magic power
Would banish spleen's unwelcome lour,
And from their bosoms far away
Chase the drear spectre ennui.

The hour of dinner fast drew on,
And in they come, pop, one by one;
The carriages—thick reeling—jostle;
The valets run in heyday bustle;
The drivers lodge their cargoes rare;
The cooks and scullions curse and swear
Because the roast is scarcely done
And all the guests arrived but one:
Now here she comes, dark fiend of hell,
Dame Lust,—so rings the dinner bell.

In order set around the table
Their talk flows like the tongues of Babel;

157

The reeking roast and pastries nice
Are meetly done to foster vice
And drought to raise, which they to smoother
Soon usher drink, a jocund brother,
Who, ere they end the night's debauch,
Proves for them all an overmatch.

Dame Riot, as by due her place,
The table head supports with grace,
While on her right her gay compeer,
Lewd Mrs. Lust, sits, eyes on leer;
Next, Dames Pride, Scandal, Envy, Guile,
Disguised by mild decorum's smile;
Then Misses Caper, Lounge, and Quiz,
Cant, Clash, Chat, Quibble, Quirk, and Friz;
And many more of these and those:
To name them all much time we'd lose.

As ably, Monsieur Riot sat
Assisted, both for deeds and chat.
Close placed beside his elbow chair,
Superb, sat Monsieur Debonair;
Then Messieurs Bagatelle and Pun,
Eclat, Hauteur, Gibe, Cully, Fun,
Outre, Savant, et cetera, et ceteræ,
In long and elegant array;
Famed amateurs of dance and song,
Double entendre and Bon ton.
Them set as potent mode directs—
We've ranged them here by age and sex.

Oh had the famish'd sons of want
Peep'd through the door, with eyes aslant,
And view'd this gay alluring scene,
Much envy had it raised, I ween!
What pity that the joys of sense
Eclipse the fatal consequence!

Scarcely by them to bounteous heaven
Is an uplifted thought e'er given,
To supplicate a blessing down
On what doth now their table crown:
But all at once, in formal mode,
With query sweet and smiling nod,

158

They carve and slice, with joyous air,
And lavishly the bounties share,
And praise, with complimental flow,
That all is cook'd quite comme-il-faut;
While perk Outre takes off his glass,
His ever welcome Coup de grace.

Now comes the elegant dessert,
The pride of culinary art,
To tempt the appetite, though slain,
The combat to renew again,
Until, per force of gormandising,
They're foiled by pastry's art surprising.

What, ho! here comes the potent bowl,
Of wit and glee the very soul,
The laugh to raise, dispelling woe,
And vending pleasure apropos;
Sed hic, the laws of chaste decorum
The ladies must observe before 'em;
For debauchees are ever haters
Of belles who are the bowl's abettors;
Therefore, at decency's desire,
Bon-gre, they all at once retire.

But here 'tis meet that we should show
How powers above rule men below,
That these may not bide all the blame,
When those at them their arrows aim;
And that we likewise hence may see
It is not all adversity
Which is accoutred in its guise,
For wisdom in a well oft lies.
Sly Cupid did with Bacchus join
To shed on man his love benign,
By cunning art, in firm compact,
This fete's event to counteract;
So each his twanging bow did bend,
And showers of arrows down did send,
T' accomplish the desired end.
Like lightning through the ladies' hearts
The Cyprian archer sent his darts,

159

And fondly from his seat above
He viewed them half entranced with love;
And in their glancing eyes were seen
Some glimpses wild of lust unclean.

Likewise the rosy god of wine
So glued his Messieurs to the vine,
That nought could wile them from the seat
Where brimm'd the bowl with nectar sweet.
In vain the bell for tea was rung,
In vain the lyre for dance was strung,
In vain was every warm essay
To break the bands of revelry;
Jocund they toasted, pledged, and sang,
While discord through their catches rang;
Till fled the sable shades of night,
And dawn'd the saffron morning light.

The sex, out-teased with spite and spleen,
All disappointed, left the scene;
For cards and scandal both gave way
To ease the grief of this affray.
Yet still our toppers braved the blast,
Each Bacchus serving to the last,
Till piecemeal on the soft tapis,
They sank, while wine sang victory.

There had they dosed in woeful plight,
Had not their valets, stout and tight,
Them in sedans and coaches huddled
(To their disgrace so sorely fuddled)
Home—there to lie and snore unseen;
But who could the dishonour screen?
With drought and rage their bosoms burn
As they to sense's realms return;
Apologies each way they're planning,
And all the power of diction scanning;
While valets run, with blister'd feet,
With cards, their doings to secrete:
And thus did end Dame Riot's fete.

160

The Misanthropos.

“Who's yon, beneath the sullen frown
Of the impending rock,
O'ertopp'd with pines of searest brown,
Scathed by the lightning's shock?
With folded arms and downward gaze
He dernly treads the briery maze,
Where scarce the sun's all-cheering rays
Smile through the gloomy oak.

“Doubtless a sage of virtues pure!
So speaks his hermit look—
Who shuns the world's destructive lure
In this sequester'd nook.
His rural weeds and matted hair,
His musing, world-contemning air,
A philosophic aspect bear,
Which only few can brook.”

“Ah! stranger, no! thy judgment errs
Far, far, in thinking so;
The seemly ambush oft inters
A deadly lurking foe.
That troglodyte, of manner mild,
From human intercourse exiled,
Was ne'er devotion's pious child—
Ne'er felt love's melting glow.

“No hymn of praise, at eve or morn,
Flows from his rocky cell;
By hatred keen he's inly torn,
Though thus recluse he dwell.
Like pois'nous asps and adders vile,
Rove through his soul rage, hate, and guile,
Where galling discord rules the while
This miniature of hell.

“The hapless stranger, faint and fear'd,
Who wanders from his way,
Whom nature says he should have cheer'd,
He fails not to betray.

161

When surly winter, round our coast,
Smooths the deep lake with snow and frost,
Ofttimes the trav'ller there is lost,
Led by this wretch astray.

“Yet in his youth this monster base
Was learned, proud, and brave,
And glory sought, through fortune's maze,
Where thousands found their grave.
Amidst the horrent shouts of war
He drove infuriate slaughter's car;
Power hunted he, both near and far;
For this his mind did rave.

But state detection mark'd the bent
And bias of his soul;
Then quick his towering flight was spent,
Which aim'd at chief control.
Statists—the check of those who stray
Beyond the limits of their sway—
Did lop his wings—then, well-a-day!
From manhood's haunts he stole.

“And now he spends the dreary time
In universal hate,
Immured within this narrow clime,
To rail and spurn at fate.
Mark now his gait, his accent hear,
His imprecations wildly drear—
Alike unknown to love or fear:
This is the hermit's state.”

Britannia in Lacrymis.

November bleak swept sullen o'er the isle
Where Freedom, guardant, roams the rocky coast,
And night's grim shroud obscured heaven's stellar smile,
When famed Britannia wail'd her Princess lost.

162

From the rude cliffs, her seat in days of war,
The goddess came, in mourning weeds attired,
While gloomy tempest drove his boreal car,
And sat by Windsor's tomb, by woe inspired.

Pensive and sad, she raised the strain of woe,
While hail-blasts harsh the direful prelude rung;
And ever and anon the tears did flow,
As dropp'd this dirge from off her faltering tongue.

“Alas! the sad, the fatal hour is come,
Which bright anticipation view'd with joy;
But all is changed, and every tongue is dumb,
Or sighs, ‘Oh, death! why thus our hope destroy?”

“She's gone for ever from this scene of things;
In death's cold grasp she doth profoundly sleep:
Pale visaged woe now strikes her drearest strings—
While Leöpold and I in anguish weep.

“No grief like that which is forerun by hope:
And where the hope like that which I possess'd?
But now, of that bereft, despair finds scope
To hold grim council still with the distress'd.

“She's dead! the clear concatenation's broke!
The ebon shroud now screens that pallid face,
Which lately virtue, love, and life bespoke—
With every Christian, every courtly grace.

“Ah! little dream'd she the eventful hour,
That usher'd death to her, approach'd so fast:
But e'en when death, with horrid frown, did lour,
Her look of love on Leöpold was cast.

“That look! so deep on his pure soul is graven
It will remain till time with him be o'er:
That look! like angel's smile serene from heaven!
Bade earth a sweet farewell for evermore!

“Soft be her rest! a soul so strung to love
Will find a clime congenial, high in bliss,
In rapture sweet, to join the choir above,
Nor cast one “lingering, longing look” on this.

HUIC SPERENT OMNIA!

“Britannia in tears” for the death of the Princess Charlotte. This afflicting national bereavement took place in November, 1817, and the above lines were a nearly extemporaneous effusion upon receipt of the distressing news.

163

Scotia's Lament.

Why, Scotia, heavest thou that sad sigh?
Why dropp'st thou that sad tear?
Why droops thy crest-plume, that so high
Did, tow'ring, long appear?

Thy tresses all dishevell'd hang,
Thy rosy cheek is pale;
Thy voice, that long triumphant sang,
Now pours a woeful wail.

Say, lovely maid, what wakes thy woe,
So strange, and yet so true;
Thy sons disgraced thee not, I know,
At blood-stain'd Waterloo.

“Ah, no! 'tis not for honour lost
Upon the field of war;
There still my sons maintain'd their post,
Though mark'd with many a scar.

“Ne'er, since the Roman eagle spread
His wings o'er my domain,
Have my brave sons like cowards fled,
The martial page to stain.

“But, dauntless as the stubborn rock
That bounds my free-born strand,
They've oft repell'd the en'my's shock,
Disdaining their command.

“Yet, now, what anguish wrings my soul
For what they now endure,
Who ought, 'gainst carping want's control,
To have remain'd secure.

“Theirs were, by right, the joys of peace,
For dangers bravely borne;
But, ah! to them comes no release,
For which I sadly mourn!

“Strange! that, in Freedom's native land,
Where Wallace fought and fell,
The fiend Oppression's ruthless hand
Should raise want's direful yell!

164

“Had foes but struck the cruel blow
They might have been forgiven,
But Sires to treat their children so
Calls down the wrath of heaven.

“This horrible infanticide
For vengeance loudly cries,
And mercy's portals open wide,
Whence retribution flies.

“Oh lovely land of dance and song,
Where pleasure once was free,
The harp and viol, ere 'tis long,
Shall ring no more in thee!

“Across the wide Atlantic's waves,
In legions, from thee fly
Thy sons—to where wealth's banner saves
From want's distressing cry.

“Columbia's almost boundless realms
Shall blossom fresh and gay,
While misery thy fields o'erwhelms,
Where pleasure sheds no ray.

“Should Mars again uplift the spear,
O'er Europe waved so long,
Where, Albion, wilt thou then appear,
Thou land of dance and song?”

The Poetaster: an Epigram.

A pedant Peter Rithmus was,
Who vow'd he knew prosodial laws;
A bold pretender unto all
The strains which from the Muses fall:
But yet, alas! his visage shows
Want visits oft'ner than the Muse.
He sits up late, burns many a candle,
In hopes his subject well he'll handle:
His stock of lore in every lay is cramm'd,
And, after all his pains, his works are damned.
Though Rithmus thinks all else he doth surpass,
The critics term him still a stupid ass.

165

Cash.

'Tis hard to lie 'mang flaes in simmer,
Or bugs, wha haunt auld beds o' timmer,
Or thole slee Love's inconstant glimmer,
That gi'es sic fash;
But waur than a' is that base limmer,
Miss Want-o'-Cash.

O' life—but Cash—what joy or mirth
Can mortal budies ha'e on yirth?
Whare mis'ry's Oronock-like firth
Doth whelming dash.
A day o' woe is ilk chield's birth
That's scant o' Cash.

Alake! the chield can never thrive
Wha has 'gainst adverse fate to strive;
The stubborn jilt her drift will drive
Wi' scorpion lash;
Till 'neath despair he sink, belyve,
For want o' Cash.

But, oh! how joyous pass the days
When baskin' 'neath kind fortune's rays;
The pulse wi' heavin' rapture plays;
Licht reels our pash;
We've mony frien's, withouten faes,
When rife o' Cash.

Wi' ill fill'd purse, at merry meetin'
Ane dowie sits, wi' dread a' sweatin',
And scarce daur gi'e their craig a weetin',
Or join the clash;
A yillwife's bill's na'e sicht invitin'
When scant o' Cash.

But, ah! how bauld a birkie roars,
And rings and brews, and drinks and splores;
When conscious he can clear his scores,
He gabs fu' gash,
And toasts and sangs he blithe en-cores,
When pang'd wi' Cash.

166

Cash cleeds the back and fills the kyte,
Gars mony a coof appear perfyte;
Though he can neither read nor write,
The claverin' hash
Mak's lasses' hearts amaist gae hyte
Wi' rowth o' Cash.

At market, ball, or holy-fair,
Cash gars a birkie strut and stare;
And ony lass that's ranked there,
Like lichtning's flash,
Springs at his wink; she needs nae mair
If he hae Cash.

Nae hucksters, snabs, nor tailors fear him,
Accounts aff-hand he aye can clear them;
That bluid-hound gang comes never near him,
The beagle trash:
Noucht casts him down, a' aids to cheer him,
That's rife o' Cash.

Cauld winter's win' may rudely blaw,
And smoor the warld deep under snaw,
Yet pale-faced want dare never draw
At his door-lash;
Nor sullen spleen his visage shaw,
While he has Cash.

The wildest loun that e'er chow'd cheese,
Whase wealth can let him reel at ease,
Will be respected by grandees;
While his weak clash
Will savour o' the learn'd degrees,
Sic power has Cash.

But ane whase coat is worn sae bare
That scarce a louse can travel there,
Will meet the sklent disdainfu' stare,
Though straucht's a rash
His conduct be; yet, de'il may care,
He still wants Cash.

Snool'd laithfu'ness doth aften seize him,
Cauld puirtith's claims incessant tease him,

167

And wyzen'd want nae seldom gi'es him
Clean teeth to gnash;
Till death, his frien', frae mis'ry frees him
That's void o' Cash.

Ye wha ha'e plenty at your ca',
That strut about baith braid and braw,
Beware, lest ye tyne fortune's ba',
Else, clean slapdash,
Your friends their friendship will withdraw
When ye want Cash.

For mony a chield that ance fu' saucy,
Wi's puncheon-kyte projectin' gawsy,
Has drawn respect on Glasgow causey,
Now fin's pride's lash;
While former friends him heedless pass aye,
Since tined o's Cash.

Ode on the Return of Peace.

Now fled is the demon of death from the field,
And Bellona her ensign hath furl'd;
No more doth the soldier the red weapon wield,
Nor with blood drench the grief-laden world.

The trumpet no more wakes the dew-chilled camp,
Nor the swell of the thundering drum;
No dense sulph'rous smoke dims the sky's glorious lamp;
All the furies of war now are dumb.

Lovely Peace waves the white flag of truce round her head,
And no wife, child, or parent doth mourn;
Joy tunes, at the signal, the sweet rural reed
For the stay of her country's return.

O Britain, forget not the perilous time
When the blood of thy children was shed;
When, throughout the whole earth, in war's contest sublime,
Thy death-daring sons bravely bled!

168

Content.

The sages, who do bright display
The regions of philosophy,
Do all agree, with one consent,
The greatest blessing is Content:
But where to find this heavenly fair
They differ strangely wide;
Some search the earth, and some the air,
As fancy doth decide.

Newton, within great nature's laws,
Explores each consequence and cause;
Experiments unnumber'd tries,
Nor quits his search until he dies;
Finds pleasure new in each advance
He makes to wisdom's throne,
Till wheeling systems, at one glance,
He can descry anon.

What crowds incessant strive to climb
Parnassus' tow'ring height sublime?
And Homer, Virgil, Milton, Pope,
With Shakespeare, have attain'd the top:
Though sweeter far the Hebrew strains
Which through our bosoms thrill,
Struck by the heaven-inspired swains
Who stray'd round Zion's hill.

Where Mars displays the furbish'd spear
Behold the sons of blood appear;
The leader of the Grecian host,
And Cæsar, Rome's eternal boast;
With those who o'er Hindostan ran
With predatory sweep—
Famed Tamerlane and Zinghis Khan,
By whom did thousands weep.

And, last, yon troop who strive to gain
The golden gate of Mammon's fane;
O'er land and sea they eager press
To reach their throne of happiness:

169

On wealth their thoughts are wholly bent,
Their hearts for lucre burn;
That gain'd, they still are discontent,
And, disappointed, mourn.

But palms and laurels, though attain'd,
And wisdom found, and riches gain'd,
May still have miss'd the hallow'd road
Which leads to true Content's abode.
She seldom in the palace dwells,
Where grandeur gleams in gold,
But oft the peasant's bosom swells,
Who tends the lone sheepfold.

Hers is the power to raise the smile
Upon the sun-burn'd face of toil;
To cheer the soul and clear the eye
Of downcast ragged poverty;
And dissipate the sullen gloom
That o'er misfortune frowns;
And soothe the martyr 'neath his doom,
While horror dwells with crowns.

'Tis not the splendour of the court
Can tempt her thither to resort;
'Tis not that mirth where riot reigns
Can waft her from her calm domains;
But patient mild humility
Alone she does attend,
Whose handmaid, pure fidelity,
Befriends her to the end.

Epitaph

TO THE MEMORY OF FOUR INFANTS.

Parents, forbear for us to wail and weep!
We in the arms of Jesus fell asleep,
While you in tears mourn'd o'er the loss;
For, 'mid the throng of saints and angels bright,
We swell that song, with ever new delight—
The glorious, matchless triumph of the cross!

170

Vice's Entreaty.

Oh but this once, and then, for aye, adieu
To all that's opposite to virtue's call!
Oh but this once, and then the path pursue
In which man walk'd before the fatal fall.

Youth's sun yet shines in his meridian height—
Repent before you die the soul will save;
None, but who latterly the ransom slight,
Shall sink despairing in the gloomy grave.

The Saviour's blood, profuse, for man was shed;
And man was form'd to enjoy his state;
Then why the clemency of heaven dread?
Or frown beneath th' Omnipotence of fate?

'Tis as thy life the cordial cup to taste,
Which vivifies and brightens every power;
Then dally not, time's fleeting hours to waste,
But seize with rapture sense's blooming flower.

Thus spake the traitor, and the list'ning youth
Unto the base remonstrance lent an ear;
And deem'd the counsel the behest of truth—
So in the mire of guilt plunged, void of fear.

Epitaph on a Lady,

ALIKE FAMOUS FOR TATTLING, LYING, AND HYPOCRISY.

Now, Death! a nest-egg ye ha'e got
Nae greedy grub dare pree;
So she may lie a thousand years,
Yet ne'er corruption see.

On her we've wared nae costly rites
O' the Egyptian nation;
The vip'rous venom o' her heart
Is special preparation.

Ne'er was a hapless clachan cursed
Wi' sic a pest, I ween;
For, since she's gane, some folk will threep
We've the millennium seen.

171

SONGS.

DEAR CALEDONIA.

[_]

DUET,—Music by the Author.

Hark, hark! yon sound from the temple of fame
To the praise of our dear native land;
See, see the bright blazon'd roll where the name
Of each genius doth brilliantly stand!
Who then would refrain
To join the sweet strain
Which the Muses in harmony swell?
While the chime they impart
Sweetly flows on the heart,
When the theme is the land where we dwell.

Caledonia, Caledonia! dear Caledonia!
No spot on this earth
Can I love half so well
As the place of my birth,
The dear land where I dwell—
Caledonia, Caledonia! dear, dear Caledonia!

Strike, strike the harp and the sweet violin,
With the clarionet and mellow toned flute;
Come, come, let's with these the sweet prelude begin,
While Cecilia's fair daughters are mute.
Then, then let the fair
Aloud join the air
Which the Muses in harmony swell!
While the chimes they impart
Sweetly flow on the heart,
When the theme is the land where we dwell.

Caledonia, Caledonia! dear Caledonia!
The hero and bard
With thee always remain;
That thy freedom to guard,
This to cheer the sweet plain.
Caledonia, Caledonia! dear, dear Caledonia!

172

THE STAR OF BRUNSWICK.

[_]

TUNE,—“Rule Britannia.”

Illustrious Brunswick's glorious Star,
At last, with blaze effulgent shines;
The fiend of scandal flies afar,
Defeated in his base designs.
Sons of Freedom, the laurel-wreath entwine,
Round the crown of Caroline!

Thus virtue ever, in the end,
Can show her beauteous smiling face,
While none her en'mies will defend,
But brand them still with fell disgrace.
Hail, Britannia, Britannia, hail thy Queen,
Freed from harm by Power unseen.

THE SOLDIER'S DIRGE.

[_]

TUNE,—“Sir Watkin William Wynn.”

“Blow softly, ye winds,” cried the poor homeless stranger,
As slowly he trudged o'er the dark dreary moor;
“Beat lightly, ye rains, on a wretch left to danger,
In quest, this sad night, of a lodging secure.
I've braved Gallic valour, and triumph'd victorious;
I've stood shot and shell on Corunna's cold shore,
And yet I must stray here, thus friendless, inglorious,
And ne'er see the smile of my Mary once more.”

His gore-tarnish'd helmet he tore off in anguish;
Exposed his dark locks to the night dews of heaven;
On the red field of Fleurus he left was to languish,
Where thousands that day were from life's mansions driven.
Around him the victims of slaughter were lying,
Around him the wounded in sorrow did wail;
The wind in the cannons' mouths wildly was sighing,
And the sentinel's lone foot was heard in the dale.

The thick film of death o'er his din eye was spreading,
His tongue, parched with thirst, to his palate did cling,
O'er the corses of comrades and foes he was treading,
Where the vulture's harsh scream did their requiem sing.
His brain reels, he faints, he falls prone on the damp ground;
Life's joys and life's woes to the warrior are o'er—
He sleeps now for aye 'neath the sward of the camp ground,
Unbless'd with the smile of his Mary once more.

173

THE BATTLE OF NAVARINO.

[_]

AIR.—The Battle of the Nile.

Awake, awake, bright freedom's sons, awake,
And flock to the shade of the verdant tree of liberty!
With fear, with fear oppression's minions quake,
When they deem the sons of slavery shall be free.
To Codrington, to Hayden, and Rigny, sons of valour,
Let us drain our brimmers dry, and to every gallant sailor,
Who mann'd our hearts of oak,
Amid thunder, fire, and smoke;
Who mann'd our hearts of oak
When they broke the Turkish yoke;
And freedom's blooming face
Aroused from base disgrace.
Then resound, resound their deathless names around,
While angels rejoin, from the gilded azure canopy:
Resound, resound their deathless names around,
Who proclaim'd that Greece—that Europe should be free!

How glorious the scene, when, amid the battle's roar,
The flags of Europa were seen triumphant wave!
When thy children, O Greece, from the thunder-shaken shore,
Saw the tyrant's doom waft freedom to the slave.
As the sultan's crescent sank 'neath Britannia's direful thunder,
His trembling vassals saw, and were petrified with wonder;
While they reel'd into the deep
By our cannons' fatal sweep;
While they reel'd into the deep
To their everlasting sleep,
And the shrieks of wild despair
Rang throughout the sulph'rous air.
Then resound, resound the matchless deed around,
While angels rejoin, from the gilded azure canopy:
Resound, resound their deathless names around,
Who proclaim'd that Greece—that Europe should be free!

174

Prepare, prepare, ye dauntless Greeks, prepare
To wave freedom's flag o'er the golden Archipelago;
Come share, come share the prize of peace, come share,
Now wrested from your fierce marauding foe!
Let the spirits of your sires point the way to deeds of glory,
That your actions long may gild the true patriot's noble story;
And let Navarino bay
Swell the hero's lofty lay;
And let Navarino bay
Be a theme to last for aye,
When the Turkish fleet combined
To destruction was consign'd.
Then resound, resound the matchless deed around,
While angels rejoin, from the gilded azure canopy:
Resound, resound their deathless names around,
Who proclaim'd that Greece—that Europe should be free!

THE HUNGARIAN REFUGEE.

[_]

AIR.—“The Fair Land of Poland.”

On the plains of Hungaria, when freedom unfurl'd
Her bright standard to float in the breeze,
Joy whisper'd that pleasure pervaded the world,
Nought frowned, and all rivall'd to please.
But a faint filmy cloud the horizon o'ercast,
And it deeper and darker shed gloom,
Till the pure banner's sheen, by a tempest's fell blast,
Was uprooted and shorn of its bloom.
Dear land! once so happy, my home, once bless'd,
A traitor's hand hath stain'd thy crest.

Thus the tyrant of Austria, and Czar of the north,
Leagued in merciless unholy faith,
Pour'd their legions of ruthless marauders forth,
Commission'd with torture and death.
Still the war-cry was Freedom or Death from our ranks,
Mingling wild with the canon's harsh roar,
Till we vanquish'd our foe on the dark Danube's banks,
And the spoil off in triumph we bore.
Alas! that warrior who thus fought best,
A traitor turn'd and stain'd our crest.

175

NON MI RICORDO.

[_]

TUNE,—“When at home with dad.”

Hark, yon traitor cries!
“You, who wealth are courting,
Here your treasure lies
In the lap of fortune!
All who wish may win,
And not risk a shilling—
Tumble, tumble in—
To the lucky bag of Milan.
To ra lo ra le, &c.

“Never mind the crime
Nor the nation's curses,
While the gold doth chime
Sweetly in your purses.
Swear the Queen's unchaste
On land, and when aboard, O;
And when cross-tried, in haste
Bawl out, ‘non mi ricordo!’”
To ra lo ra le, &c.

Thus has the traitor got
The refuse of a nation,
By bribery and by plot
Well trained for defamation.
He cries, “I think we'll do—
We'll gain our point completely;
We'll prove it through and through—
For we've all the knaves in Italy.”
To ra lo ra le, &c.

But spite of all his skill,
His perjury and bluster,
He's in confusion still
For all his noisy fluster.
Demont's in error's thrall!
Help Sacchi can't afford, O!
Majacci cries to all
That's asked, “non mi ricordo!”
To ra lo ra le, &c.

176

Thy fate, O Britain, mourn,
To think of the expenses,
And eke the matchless scorn
And woeful consequences!
All Europe, laughing, jeers,
To see the bosom cronies
Of our great House of Peers
A band of Lazaronies.
To ra lo ra le, &c.

Liverpool, take heed,
Lest foreign knaves befoil ye,
Premiers often need
Reflect on Cardinal Wolsey.
Caroline must reign,
Though we squander millions,
Far and near, to gain
A host of perjured scullions.
To ra lo ra le, &c.

THE BARBER'S BRIBES.

GLEE.

[_]

MUSIC.—“When Arthur first at Court began.”

A Barber in a borough town
A burgess was of note;
And both a Lord and Knight came down
To bribe him for his vote.
The Lord did give him fifty pounds
Each time that he was shaved;
The Knight but gave him fifty crowns,
So might his pains have saved.

The day arrived when they all met
To close the keen election;
The Lord the Barber's vote did get,
Which met with quick detection.
“Hold,” cried the Knight, “you shaved me once,
Pray, Barber, mind the price!”
“O yes,” said the Barber, “I own, Sir, you're right,
But I shaved his Lordship twice.”

177

THE BEADLE AND THE SEXTON.

[_]

AIR,—“My mither ment my auld breeks.”

The beadle and the sexton
Gaed in to drink a chappin,
And talk on ony odds and ends
That up and down did happen.
The tide o' trade is run sae ebb
That folk combine thegither,
Sae Rab and Will averr'd their right
As good as ony ither.

Now Robin Grub the sexton was
A gash and gabby body,
Wha could wheep aff a horn o' yill,
Or glass o' reeking toddy;
The beadle's name was Willie Gled,
A slee and sleeky shaver,
Whase drouth as great as Robin's was,
But aye his face was graver.

When they had drunk to ither's health,
And talked on the weather,
Quo' Willie, “how's trade gaun wi' you?
Mine's reestin a' thegither!”
“Indeed, I canna sair complain,
To tell the truth,” said Robin,
“For aye somebody's drappin' aff,
Whilk hauds me hafflings jobbin'.

“The ither Monday mornin',
When I was at my labour,
Wha stappit owre the style to crack,
But just the priest, our neighbour!”
‘Robin,’ quo' he, ‘ye're eident at
Your dreary avocation;’
‘Yes, Sir,’ quo' I, ‘folk's blithe o' wark,
To keep them frae starvation.

“‘But gin a stipend I could get,
Come labour or come nane, Sir,
Frae wishin' skaith to ony ane
For aye I would refrain, Sir;’

178

This touch'd him on the kittle flank,
And hafflins did him huff, man;
He said nae mair, but bade guid morn',
Syne walked aff right gruff, man.”

The beadle, wheepin' aff his cog,
Says, “Man, that's special reason;
It gars ane's elbow yeuk to hear
A word laid in—in season;
To help the clerk, he's raised the cries,
Whilks set the folk a-smugglin';
Sae ne'er a ane comes through the kirk—
They a' skip yont to Ruglen.

“Rab Urie, there, for twa three gills,
Will splice a hasty couple;
And sae I lie out o' my dues,
And canna weet my thrapple:
I've been sae sair bestead o' late,
By rich and puir negleckit,
That twice or thrice I've spunged the plate,
And, heth, I'm now suspeckit.”

Quo' Robin, “I an openin' see
To better our condition,
Gin we could only cautious be,
And keep awa' suspicion.
The kirkyaird's fairly in our power,
Unfasht wi' strict inspection;
What hauds our han's, but we, at times,
May try a resurrection?”

Said Willie, wi' assentin' smile,
“I've whiles been thinkin' on it;
Yet couldna broach't, till ance I heard
What cam' frae 'neath your bonnet.
The doctors wad skip a' their lare
Withouten sic assistance;
Gin ye agree, come, there's my han',
I sal mak' nae resistance.”

Ilk claucht the ither's horny paw,
And soukit aff his jorum,
To sanction the unhallow'd law
Pass'd by this twasome quorum.

179

They've startit trade, but how 'twill end,
A warlock couldna spae yet;
Perhaps in wealth, perhaps 'twill send
Them baith to Bot'ny Bay yet.

CUPID'S CONQUEST.

[_]

TUNE,—The Dandy, O.

Why brightens every brow
On the banks of Calder now?
Why flows the song of love from every tongue, tongue, tongue?
Sweet Cupid soon replies,
'Tis my darts, shot from the eyes
Of a girl that is charming and young, young, young.

Young Johnnie thought to prove
He'd defy the powers of love
In the verdant palm of victory he'd won, won, won;
Till through the glen he stray'd
With that soul-enchanting maid,
For whom he now cries out, I'm undone, done, done.

She's like the lily fair
That perfumes the morning air,
And the soul of music hangs on her tongue, tongue, tongue.
Her wit and repartee
Have completely captured me,
For by Cupid's sharpest dart I'm stung, stung, stung.

So killing are her smiles,
And so winning all her wiles,
That his heart she has quite overcome, come, come.
His fancy night and day
O'er love's flowery fields doth stray,
And still he exclaims, I'm undone, done, done.

But when poor Johnnie knew
That a lover kind and true
From the bonnie banks of Cart he had come, come, come,
He cried out, in despair,
Blackest grief is now my share,
For by Cupid's timely dart I'm undone, done, done.

180

SEND THE COG ABOUT.

[_]

AIR,—“The bold Dragoon.”

Hugh Merry and John Cherry
Met upon a simmer morn,
To drink a pint of perry
At the sign of Plenty's horn.
There Bauldy Black and Watty White,
And Barny Blue, the dyester's brither,
Wi' Geordie Green and Gibbie Gray,
Were sittin' singin' a' thegither—

“Ca' roun' the bicker, boys,
Aye let's pree the reamin' cappie;
Care flees frae mornin' joys:
Send the cog about.”

The swats gaed roun' like drift,
And the crack grew loud and dreich,
But the birkies wadna lift,
Although the sun was wearin' heich.
Ilk fancy was sae weel inspired,
That every tongue grew glib and roarous,
And aye's they took the ither waucht,
They lilted up the merry chorus,

Ca' roun' the bicker, &c.

The dyester's wife cam' doun,
Shorin' baith to scart and strike,
For aye she swore by a' aboon
That she wad quickly skail the byke.
She claucht her dearie's purple pow,
Misca'in' a' for graceless sinners,
And she haul'd him owre the table straucht,
And a' the dishes brak to flinners—

Sayin'—“Ca' roun' your bicker, boys,
Pree now your reamin' cappie;
I'se gi'e ye mornin' joys:
Send the cog about!”

The host cam' ben fu' big,
To appease the spouse's ire;
But she claucht his braw new wig
And flung 't wi' vengeance on the fire.

181

The cronies slade out ane by ane,
The dyester's menseless wife misca'in',
While the landlord, in his wrath,
Baith forgat his graith and lawin'.

Spoken.—And this for ance put an end to the merry Chorus of—

“Ca' roun' the bicker, boys,
Aye let's pree the reamin' cappie;
Care flees frae mornin' joys:
Send the cog about.”

GET NELLY'S HAND.

[_]

AIR,—“Up and waur them a', Willie.”

Up and waur them a', Willie,
Up and waur them a';
Ye hae the airt to wile the heart
Frae lasses ane and a', Willie!

Though mony rin, wi' endless din,
Their thrawart joes to see, Willie;
Their bosoms knell, wi' pleasures swell,
At ae blink o' thy e'e, Willie.

But letna love thy bosom move
To join in wedlock's bands, Willie;
Unless she hae the powerfu' sway
O' siller and o' lands, Willie.

Young Nelly wons in yonder glen,
As blithe as rosy May, Willie;
Her try, as weel the way ye ken,
I'm sure she'll ne'er say nae, Willie.

Around her mony wooers thrang,
And muckle love do show, Willie;
Enrol your name, and ere 'tis lang
You'll bear the gree awa', Willie.

Up and waur them a', Willie,
Up and waur them a';
Get Nelly's han', and a' her lan',
Ere Beltan winds do blaw, Willie.

182

THE CADGER.

[_]

AIR,—“Dumfries House.”

The cadger, mounted on cuddy and sodds,
To shun a' the tolls, aye took through the muir roads;
Of poachers and smugglers he kenn'd the abodes,
For in geography skill'd was the cadger.
Though nearly threescore, he was supple and stark,
As fresh as a trout, and as blithe as a lark;
As wily's a fox, whether daylight or dark,
He could bilk either beagle or gauger.

The cadger was eident, ne'er sluggish nor slack
To rack out a penny frae bodle or plack;
His purse was weel stow'd, and weel clad was his back;
Sae baith mensefu' and bien was the cadger.
He twenty lang summers admired the ash trees
That waved round the dwellin' o' Mirren Braidlees;
Yet ne'er durst he hint o' her coffer'd bawbees,
For Mirren was shy as a badger.

The sun had for thirty times come north the line
Since Mirren did first for a half-marrow pine;
But ne'er, till the last claucht o' hope she did tyne,
Did she e'er think o' weddin' a cadger.
Though the sages declare “that we see nothing new,”
Yet the pith o' this saw mony couldna see through;
E'en the dominie smiled, while his ink-cork he drew
To beuk Mirren Braidlees to a cadger.

The cuddie he deck'd wi' a braw sprit-new saddle,
That day he set out to bid folk to the bridal;
Through bog, muir, and moss, whip and spur werena idle;
He rode as 'gainst time on a wager.
He was firmly intent ilka saul should be there
Wi' whom he had traffic in hen, duck, or hare,
Which brought on his roll the maist feck o' the shire:
Sic a rant was ne'er plann'd by a cadger.

But waefu' mishap brak sweet wedlock's bright spell;
The frosty east win' blew the drift sharp and snell,
Whilk gart him tak' howff in a smuggler's snug stell,
For the cuddy nae langer could budge her.

183

He was primely acquant wi' the mountain-dew core,
Baith bottles and bladders he'd fill'd there before,
Sae the swats circled quick, wi' guid-will, in galore,
To the health o' the bride and the cadger.

The pith o' the maut, and the toils o' the day,
Wintled Robin clean owre 'mang the rashes and hay,
To hiccup and snore, as he vanquish'd thus lay,
A hapless and helpless nicht lodger.
The moon, shining clear, now display'd, 'mang the whins,
The flickerin' gleam o' baith bay'nets and guns;
Sae for safety, in terror, ilk smuggler aff runs,
Leaving fate to tak' tent o' the cadger.

Straucht aff, like a traitor, they trail'd in a cart
The bridegroom to bridewell, for twal months to smart,
Which brak up the bridal, and brak down his heart,
That, for steel, could ha'e sairt a drum-major.
Debarr'd now frae poachers, and smugglers, and stills,
Frae fresh braken glens, and frae red heather hills,
The staunchers and cells, wi' their thousands o' ills,
Made a sad total wreck o' the cadger.

THE PAINTER.

[_]

AIR,—“The new-rigged Ship.”

The painter cam' to the castle ha',
The likeness o' lovely Miss Lillie to draw;
He screen'd a' the lozens but ane or twa,
And no ane the door durst enter.
The housemaids deck'd themselves in haste,
They crimped their frills, and their corsets they braced,
And their caps wi' pink ribbons most gaudily graced,
To entangle the heart o' the painter.

The painter wroucht, while he sowtht and sang
His sweetest love ditties the hale day lang;
The cook whiles thoucht he wasna that thrang,
Sae to keek through the key-hole did venture.
She saw the canvas stood by to dry,
The brushes and palette unheeded did lie,
While bonnie Miss Lillie, wi' languishing eye,
Sat talkin' 'bout love wi' the painter.

184

She ran and tauld the governess a',
And it soon was rehearsed to mamma and papa;
The laird looked sour, and his haffits did claw,
And vow'd she o' that would repent her.
“A fine guffaw to the hale kintra wide,
To hear o' a lady, sae void o' a' pride
As lose a guid tocher, to be a bare bride
To a puir scowrie loun like the painter.”

When the painter finish'd his peerless piece
Delight gart the ire o' the laird quickly cease;
Few pencils o' Rome, and few chisels o' Greece,
Sweet nature e'er hit like the painter.
The lady cried, “Eh! we see seldom sic sichts;
'Deed, laird, we maun e'en ha'e a' wrangs put to richts,
For, ye ken, when the king fa's a-dubbing o' knichts,
He wales out clever chields like the painter.”

The laird he keckled, and rubbed his brow,
Syne at the fine portrait he looked anew;
The lady's word aye he as gospel did view,
Sae langer he didna resent her.
“Weel, weel,” quo' he, “frae the plea I'se withdraw,
The bliss or the bann on your shouthers may fa';
Wi' women 'tis needless to gang to tongue-law:”
So Miss Lily's now tied to the painter.

THE MERRY NEW YEAR.

[_]

AIR,—“Hot Mutton Pyes.”

The kintra was knee-deep in snaw,
The trees a' wi' fleeces hung dreary;
Nae birdie was chirpin' ava,
And the hale warld look'd dowie and eerie:
When New'rday bade dulness be gane,
And kittled up mirth in the clachan;
Ilk carle, carline, lad, lass, and wean,
Lang ere daylicht, were rantin' and laughin',
To welcome the merry New-Year.

The steeple-clock scarce had struck twal
When ilk birkie bang'd to his kist shottle,
Determined to banish the caul'
Wi' a scour o' guid strunt frae his bottle.

185

The clachan was soon in a steer
Wi' reengin at doors and at winnocks,
Wi' whisky, and ither guid cheer,
Curran' buns, cheese, and weel-butter'd bannocks,
To hansel the merry New-Year.

The best scene o' mirth in the town
Lay down in auld Ringan M'Aulay's;
This was the pole-star, that, a' roun',
Attracted in a' the young fallows.
His dochters, sae gleesome and braw,
Bewitch'd hearts and een just like glamour;
Sae, lang ere we heard the cock craw,
The house rang wi' taproom-like clamour,
To welcome the merry New-Year.

Jock Jenkins cam' frae the Gearglen
To rival the smith and the miller,
Cocksure he wad win farthest ben
Wi' braggin o' gear and o' siller:
While touslin' wi' Nell in the neuk
He tumbled the cast-metal boiler,
That scaddit, by fearfu' misluck,
A' the shins o' Tam Bodkin the tailor,
To welcome the merry New-Year.

He raised up a savage-like yell—
“Oh, murder! I'm dead now, I'm dead now!”
And straucht on Jock's summit he fell,
And rave nievefu's o' hair frae his head now;
But Nepps, to prevent further strife,
Strack in, to keep Tam's wrath in balance,
Else Jock's face had borne through his life
Fleesome scaurs frae the tailor's sharp talons,
For haudin the merry New-Year.

They balsam'd his shins wi' train-oil,
And wi' saft linen clouts gat them buckled;
And Jock, to avoid future broil,
A' morn to the tailor aye knuckled:
Sae a' was forgot and forgi'en
Out owre a guid bicker o' toddy,
And Tammie was singin' bedeen,
While the smith fell a-dancin' curcuddy,
To welcome the merry New-Year.

186

The butcher cam' ben wi' a breenge,
As blithesome and bung'd as auld Bacchus,
But fell owre the smith wi' a reenge,
Wha at his Scotch-waltz no that slack was;
This tickled the wabster, Will Thrum,
Wha flang a fou glass in the ingle;
Like lichtnin', it kindled the lum,
And fear wi' their mirth soon did mingle,
To welcome the merry New-Year.

Fire, fire! was the cry roun' and roun':
Like sailors they speel'd to the riggin';
But twa gang o' water toom'd down,
Secured the contents o' the biggin'.
Auld Ringan sat singing Kail-brose
Meantime o' this fearfu' mishanter;
And scour'd aff the ither guid dose
O' hill-dew frae a chappin decanter,
To welcome the merry New-Year.

But nae siccan hillabulloos
Were witness'd by auld Habbie Semple,
Wha pass'd the hail mornin' fou douse,—
He was priest o' the Teetotal Temple:
Till slee tricky Duncan M'Phail,
Determined to play him a pliskie,
Sugar'd up a het-pint o' strong ale
Wi' a mutchkin o' Campbelton whisky,
To welcome the merry New-Year.

Hab rail'd against whisky and gin,
While he tootit aff aye the fou bicker;
Tint his hearin', and nearly grew blin',
And his tongue couldna wauchle that sicker:
Sae they happit him snug in his bed,
Wi' claes, shoon, and a' on thegither,
And Duncan the story soon spread,
Sayin', “Nane need now laugh at anither
For haudin the merry New-Year.”

This was written during the Temperance movement, which only prohibited the use of alcoholic or distilled liquors, whilst it tolerated the moderate use of fermented.

187

TIT FOR TAT.

[_]

AIR,—“Duncan Gray.”

Geordie Bell cam' down yestreen,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
To tak' a dram wi' Rab M'Queen,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Guid auld peat reak, Highlan' blue,
Did sae nobly fire their mou',
That they drank till they got roarin' fou,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!

Geordie's wife cam' down in haste,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Yoked on him clean barefaced,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Dang him owre, and brak' the wheel,
Bled his nose, pure luckless chiel'—
Raged and rampit like a de'il,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!

Rab raise up to tak' his part,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Meg flew at him like a dart,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Fasten'd on him like a brier,
And to clouts his claes did tear;
Her rage o'ercam' baith love and fear,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!

While wi' Rab she was in grips,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Quietly out puir Geordie slips,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!
Hame he ran, and barr'd the door,
Meg without micht rant and roar,
She's got what she gied him before,
Hoch, hey, the drinkin' o't!

188

MUNGO M'GILL.

[_]

AIR,—“Come under my Plaidie.”

Draw near ilka wicht, that's licensed to retail
A dribble o' spirits, and porter, and ale,
While I sing o' a carle, a great mense to your trade,
Though he forty lang miles frae King Willie was bred.
He keepit nae tavern nor splendid hotel,
Nae floors coort wi' carpets, nor dandy-hung bell,
But a cosie thack-house, at the fit o' the hill,
And baith auld and young liked queer Mungo M'Gill.

His house was weel kenn'd by the sign o' the Chair,
An index o' meaning, although something rare;
For a birkie, ance seated, fan', to his surprise,
That the langer he sat he was sweerer to rise.
There the tailor and souter took their fittin' drams,
And the smith, owre a chappin, aft rested his trams,
And but seldom a lade gaed awa' frae the mill
But the stour was synt doun aside Mungo M'Gill.

Auld Mungo was gleesome, auld Mungo was gash,
Wore a grey worsit wig on his time-polish'd pash,
And a girdle-braid bonnet, fu' bien and fu' braw,
Wi' a tap like a red double-poppy in blaw:
A waistcoat o' red plush inclosed his round kyte,
His brown coat wi' ivory buttons shone white;
His knee and shoe-buckles were polish'd wi' skill:
Sae a snod clachan vintner was Mungo M'Gill.

When cronies cam' in for a cog and a crack,
Wi' joke and wi' jest seldom Mungo was slack;
He aye countenanced coshly ilk sentiment said;
Contradiction, he kenn'd, was nae help to his trade:
Or when chance brang a guest in sair laden wi' care,
Auld Mungo could balsam the wound to a hair;
He could quote frae the Beuk words o' comfort at will,
For nae priest was mair knacky than Mungo M'Gill.

When sederunts were dreigh, Mungo kenn'd when to please
His patients wi' ham, herrin', speldings, or cheese,
Things nobly adapted to gust a drunk mouth,
And as guid afterhind for increasin' a drouth.

189

When the crack had grown tiresome, and Mungo did think
It was lang 'tween the rounds that the gill-stoup play'd clink,
He wad look ben the trance, wishin' nae time to spill—
“Was't here ye were ca'in'?” quo' Mungo M'Gill.

Auld Nepple, his spouse, was nae waur than himsel'
For watchin' the motion o' baith stoup and bell;
And, when birkies were bungt, Neps but seldom did fail
To water the stoupie—to keep their heads hale:
Or, to please the rouch gabs o' the sons o' the mine,
She wad sharpen its taste wi' the spirit-o'-wine;
Syne auld Mungo wad laugh at his wife's pawkie skill,
For an inbringin' joke liked Mungo M'Gill.

To suit ilka company he had a rare knack,
Wi' drink to ilk taste, or wi' sang or wi' crack,
Frae the grave-spoken laird, wi' his dull hingin' brow,
To the cat-witted tailor, wi' drink ravin' fou.
He had liquor as guid as e'er gusted a gab,
And he had it as worthless as e'er fleeced a fab;
Yet the fient a ane ever disputed his bill,
For their trim was aye watch'd by slee Mungo M'Gill.

The gauger and he aye squared 'counts to a tee;
Though fou ilka visit, he toddled hame free;
This strauchted the beuks, and prevented a' strife—
And ae permit sairt Mungo the hale o' his life.
But ilk thing has an end, and a puddin' has twa;
Auld age warsel'd round, and took Mungo awa';
And but few o' his trade e'er his fitstaps will fill,
For a dungeon for craft was auld Mungo M'Gill.

The clachan was left in a pitifu' case,
Tears fill'd every e'e, and grief lengthen'd ilk face;
But the tailor, and souter, and miller, 'boon a',
To ha'e seen, wad ha'e melted a whinstane awa';
And the smith, at the dragie, sat back in the neuk,
Loudly sabbin' his lane—while nae whisky he took!
And ilk kimmer sigh'd out, that was sib to a gill—
“Sers! we'll ne'er see the like o' auld Mungo M'Gill!”

Glasgow Cross.

190

THE RUNAWA' BRIDE.

A BALLAD.

[_]

AIR,—“Nancy Dawson.”

There wonn'd a lass in yonder glen,
Wham auld and young did brawly ken;
She cracked the hearts o' a' the men—
Her name was Nancy Dawson.
But her auld daddie ne'er could bear
That ony ane her price should speer
Except the laird o' muckle gear,
Glee'd, wheezlin' Bauldy Lawson.

The lass was jimply out nineteen,
Wi' coral lips and diamond een,
And glowin' cheeks and gracefu' mien—
Oh but she was a darlin'!
And Bauldy, bleert o' baith the een,
Had mair than half a cent'ry seen,
And yet wad come, ilk Friday-'teen,
To rival Rab M'Farlane.

But Rab was young, and Rab was braw,
And had a tongue ayont them a';
Could wiled the egg frae 'neath the craw—
He was the lassie's fancy.
But Rab had neither gear nor lan',
Sae couldna please the auld guidman,
Whilk gart the carle aft rage and ban
That the loun wad ne'er get Nancy!

The father fleech'd, the mither flate,
And bother'd the lass baith air and late,
To wed the laird for his braw estate,
Else she wad get nae tocher.
But she at Glasgow town did ca',
And was advised by a limb o' the law
To please hersel' before them a',
For she was an only dochter.

The laird his beard did trimly maw,
And dress'd himsel' fu' trig and braw;
To strike the match for guid and a',
Cam' brankan up the entry:

191

But Nancy wish'd the carle at France
As he cam' hostin' ben the trance,
And thocht, wi' sigh and scornfu' glance—
This plan but answers gentry.

The match was settled, banns were ca'd,
The braws were boucht wi' great parad',
And Bauldy then fu' crousely craw'd,
Owre a' the lads victorious.
At length the bridal day cam' roun';
The gossips met, wi' gleesome soun';
But hope turn'd disappointment soon—
Hech! we seena far before us.

Wi' pouther'd wig arrived the priest;
The brewer, wi' his sled, cam' neist;
The baker brang a special feast
O' roast, pyes, buns, and gravy.
The cry gat up—the bridegroom's comin'!
And auld and young without gaed rinnin',
For now they heard the fiddle bummin',
And liltin' Dainty Davie.

The bride's now left in the spence her lane;
But out at the back door she has gane,
And down the yard, and through the glen,
Amang the birks and hazles.
She ran straucht to the trystin' tree,
And met wi' Rab wi' muckle glee;
Now aff they're fled, across the lea,
As licht as hares or weasels.

Now Bauldy, he drew near the house,
And wow but he was skeigh and crouse,
Cock sure, ere lang, to ha'e a spouse
Surpass'd by nane ava, man:
He's welcomed ben, wi' muckle mense,
To see the bride within the spence;
But they were bereaved o' every sense
When they fan' she was awa', man.

They soucht her out, and they soucht her in,
But on the track they ne'er could win;

192

Some hinted lookin' round the linn—
The extericks seized ilk carline;
But Tam, the herd, cam' down the dale,
The herald o' the doolfu' tale;
Quoth he, “I saw her, blithe and hale,
Scourin' aff wi' Rab M'Farlane.”

When Bauldy heard the luckless news,
He darts like lightnin' frae the house;
Puts on his specks, the hill he views,
And saw them turn the cairn, man:
He cried to the best-man, “Rodger, rin;
As yet, thou's no that far behin';
To me thou yet a wife may win,
And save the laird's dear bairn, man.”

Soon Rodger coost baith shoon and coat,
And took the road like a cannon shot;
The broosers, pityin' Bauldy's lot,
Flew aff as fleet as roes, man;
The fiddler, neither stiff nor slack,
Did rin till his lungs were like to crack—
But fell, and his bow and his brow he brack,
And cam' back wi' a bluidy nose, man.

Wi' quakin' knees, and duntin' breast,
Puir Bauldy saw his cronies reist;
Gat consolation frae the priest,
Syne dichtit baith his een, man:
But aye he look'd, wi' ruefu' face,
To see the upshot o' the chase;
While ilka ane believed the race
Wad end at Gretna Green, man.

Now wha's to eat the feast sae fat?
And wha's to quaff the browst o' maut?
For Bauldy has nae taste for that,
Since Nancy's proved no sterlin'.
Sae they a' slade aff, like knotless threads,
To lay aside their bridal weeds;
And the morn they'll rise wi' braw hale heads,
And be thankin' Rab M'Farlane.

193

Ye wha ha'e dochters, a' tak' tent,
And prudence learn frae this event;
Ne'er barter them 'gainst their consent,
Although it be the fashion;
Lest, on their blithesome bridal day,
They through the back-door chance to stray,
And lichtly skip out owre the brae,
Like charmin' Nancy Dawson.

A MASONIC SONG.

[_]

TUNE,—“'Twas merry in the Hall.”

When brethren of free masonry
In harmony unite,
Each bosom thrills with ecstasy
'Neath the glorious mystic light.
Still the brow of care smooths its wrinkles there,
While love and joy entwine
Round a social horn of John Barleycorn,
Or the juice of the sparkling vine.

Ne'er jarring discord enters there,
Nor faction's hot debate,
No tales of slander taint the air,
Nor intrigues of the church or state.
But each heart and hand join in love's soft band,
Within the sacred shrine;
While each action we spy, is still guided by
Reason's compass, square, and line.

The glorious art expands the heart,
And all distinction smothers;
Makes the peasant and king join hands and sing,
On the level met as brothers.
May the glorious light blaze with splendour bright,
Till time's last sun decline;
Then, pray ye, all comply to give heart, hand, and thigh,
And follow it with three times nine.

194

MY WIFE'S AYE TIPPLIN'.

[_]

AIR,—“A' nid noddin'.”

O my wife's aye tipplin', tipple, tipple, tipplin',
My wife's aye tipplin' when I'm awa frae hame.

When we twa were married, she was a sonsy quean,
The rose was on her cheeks, and the diamond in her een;
Now she's wallow'd like a docken, and her een are blear'd and red,
For she lies, her drouth to slocken, wi' the bottle in her bed.

O my wife's aye tipplin', tipple, tipple, tipplin',
My wife, in her tipplin', sees neither sin nor shame.

She wytes't upon the toothache, and on the stomach-cramp,
And aye on the rhumatiks, when the weather's cauld and damp;
But what or where the trouble is, between the tap and tae,
Nae potion and nae lotion she'll apply but usquabae.

O my wife's aye tipplin', tipple, tipple, tipplin',
My wife's aye tipplin', and I get a' the blame.

When I come frae my wark at een I aft the fire get out,
And the weans, wi' cauld and hunger, are wheengin' a' about:
She drank the sow, she drank the cow, and syne she drank the horse;
She's drucken a' the siller done, and now she's pawn'd the purse.

My wife, wi' her tipplin', tipple, tipple, tipplin',
My wife, wi' her tipplin', has made a doolfu' hame.

Some say I should gae leave her; but how can I do that,
Wi' five wee helpless bairnies, wha maun hae bit and brat?
And when, at times, she's sober, it brings across my min'
The glow o' love I bore to her in days o' langsyne.

O wad she drap her tipplin', tipple, tipple, tipplin',
O wad she drap her tipplin', 'twad mak' a heaven o' hame.

Ae truth I shall advance now, and bet my guid new spleuchan,
Ye'll get a cure for ilk disease within the boords o' Buchan;
But to reclaim a drucken wife wad gi'e the doctors wark,
For, when baith cash and tick are done, she'll pawn her hindmost sark.

O their cursed tipplin', tipple, tipple, tipplin',
Their cursed tipplin' aye mak's a waefu' hame.

195

BOB O' THE BENT.

[_]

AIR,—“Toddlin' but and toddlin' ben.”

Come a' ye steeve tipplers, and listen to me,
And I'll show you the upshot o' John Barleybrie;
Ye may, aiblins, be laith to gi'e up the bit drap,
But, I trow, in the end, ye'll fin't craw in your crap:
Then scorn nae advice gi'en wi' frien'ly intent,
Though it come frae the gab o' auld Bob o' the Bent.

My father, puir body, when death closed his een,
Left me laird o' the mailin, a' stocked fou bien,
Wi' three horses, twal' kye, and sax score o' tups and ewes,
That frisked and fed on the haughs and the knowes:
And a guid clash o' siller, that draw sax per cent.;
Sae but few chiels could brank then wi' Bob o' the Bent.

(Spoken.)—But when I gat the bridle in my ain han' I gaed on at a bonny carry; ran to a' fairs, markets, rockin's, sacraments, and weddin's —kent o' naething but fill and fetch mair; trowth, my nieve was ne'er out o' my purse frae June to Januar', sae, that e'er ye wad hae said Jock Robison, I gaed through as muckle o' my daddie's weel haint gear as wad hae been a guid nest-egg to a canny chiel a' the days o' his life. Mony a caution I gat frae my mither, puir body, wi' the tear in her e'e, and when I was sittin' hearin' her I saw my folly as clear's a bead. But whene'er I was out o' her sicht—fare-ye-weel, Tammy Orr! nae reformation wi' Bob, he's just the auld saxpence—in for another nievefu' o' siller frae the shuttle o' the kist, and awa to the nearest yill-house to get a slockenin', or, as a body may rather say, a kindlin' o' drouth, whare we wad hae clawt awa at the bicker till the mornin' sun wad been blinkin' owre the Shotts knowes.

Sae wi' tipplin' late, and wi' tipplin' soon,
My hale lyin' siller I soon tippled done.
When to Glasgow I gaed, wi' the butter and milk,
I ne'er fail'd, on the road, frae the auld naig to bilk,
And wad clatter and quaff till my siller gaed done,
Syne gaed staggerin' hame wi' the licht o' the moon:
While the beast toddled on, and aye hame fand the scent,
Leavin' fate to tak' charge o' doilt Bob o' the Bent.

(Spoken.)—And mony a dreary nicht I took the gate my lane, reelin' fou, when there was nae livin' saul to be seen a' the road hame, nor a lichted house, unless a bit blink frae the raikin'-coal o' somebody's

196

house that had nae shutter on the window. I hae fand my vera heart like to fail me when I began to measure the length o' the road before me in my ain min', and saw sic a dreary length o' hieghs and howes between me and hame, while I gaed zigzaggin' and hiccupin' awa. Whiles splashin' through dubs, whiles tumblin' ower stanes, whiles reelin' into a sheugh or a hedge, and whiles stan'in' still a' thegither, and fechtin' wi' the waterbrash, and bannin' my folly, and formin' strong resolutions ne'er to do the like again. Ye'll be aiblins thinkin' a fou body canna think, but ye'll min', after ane's gane a dozen or fourteen miles on a road (no to speak o' the sidecuttin' on't) they begin rather to draw their senses thegither, and think what they're about—ay, and to form braw plans o' reformation too. But a' the jollity I gat owre the bicker, wi' two-three canty cronies, ne'er had half the relish

O' my ain dog's bark, and my ain cock's craw,
As I drew near my hame, when the day it did daw.

But my siller grew scarce, and my credit grew sma',
And, in time o' maist need, my best frien's did withdraw;
My servants they jauked, my labour fell back,
And I saw, gin I ment na, I'd soon gae to wrack;
But my head was yet licht, and my brow was yet brent,
And dull care couldna conjure blithe Bob o' the Bent.

'Twas beltan before we our corn could get sawn,
'Twas lammas or e'er we our hay could get mawn;
Cauld winter at han' was when our corn was green,
For our kirn we got seldom before halloween:
Sae I fell far ahin' wi' the minister's stent,
Forebodin' destruction to Bob o' the Bent.

(Spoken.)—When I'm carryin' on in this manner, borrowin' siller frae ane to pay anither, and gettin' the tither visit frae the beagle, I'm down at Hamilton court ae day, (a place o' business at whilk I was beginnin' to be owre weel kenn'd, and appearin' aftener as defendant than plaintiff) and ha'ein' settled accounts wi' my legal advisers, (a class o' gentlemen, by-the-by, wha had nae sooner gotten me out o' ae scrape than they had me landed into anither) we had, as usual, a dainty dreigh sederunt owre a jug o' toddy, and syne I took the airt hame, pinch'd enough to keep the crown o' the causey. Weel, gaun by an auld howff whare I had spent hunners o' pounds, though I was now beginnin' to be mair fash than profit to them, I hears the landlady say, “there's Bob o' the Bent, rin and bar the door and keep 'im out!” Sae I just steady'd mysel' on my staff a blink, and said in my ain min',—ay, ay, is this the gratitude o' changekeepers? The diel a ane o' your craft, Lucky, will e'er bar the door on Bob o' the Bent again! I gaed straucht hame to my bed, yoked my wark niest mornin', and hae continued as steady as the sun in the lift sin'syne, and I soon fan' my affairs tak' anither turn; and aye, as I persevered, I fan' my credit grow better, till I cleared ilka bodle o' debt that was on my farm, and can defy the hale warld to say I'm awn a doit!

197

Now I've plenty o' siller in purse and in pouch,
And to nane in the warld I, for favour, need crouch;
I ha'e braw piece o' min', and guid health to the boot,
Though I saur in the changekeeper's thrapples like soot:
Let ilk chiel aff the road, then, that leads to content,
Just gae tread the last fitstaps o' Bob o' the Bent.

THE HEROIC TAILOR.

[_]

AIR,—“The Rock and the wee pickle Tow.”

Ae nicht, at the heicht o' the Michaelmas moon,
The tailor at our house was sewin', O;
He gaed down the howm, ere his labour was done,
And wi' Nelly fell briskly a-wooin', O.
A swarm o' keen lovers cam' round the same nicht,
Ilk ane, for his ain int'rest, to use his hale micht;
But a' firm resolved wi' the tailor to fecht—
For mischief in ilk head was brewin', O.

The tailor was fearless, the tailor was stark,
And mindna their jibin' and jeerin', O;
Frae bother to blows they richt soon fell to wark,
And the tailor was fast the field clearin', O.
Ane, grippin' the cushion that was on his sleeve,
Declared he a hedgehog had claucht wi' his nieve,
While stabs frae his bodkin gart ithers believe
That the broil wad come to an ill-bearin', O.

But soon a re'nforcement cam' round to their aid,
And frae numbers they courage did muster, O;
The tailor foresaw, but was naething afraid,
That he'd come aff wi' skaith frae this cluster, O:
He sprang up the craft to the house, in his ire,
And bang'd out the red goose that lay in the fire,
Syne gied them, o' fechtin', mair than their desire,
For their hides he did sotter and blister, O.

198

A' airts o' the compass they fled frae the field,
Sair skaith'd by his red salamander, O,
Astonish'd to fin' that a young tailor chield
Had the courage o' great Alexander, O.
Young Hughoc, the laird, met the warst fate ava;
He a new suit had on, and was baith skeigh and braw,
But plunged in the midden when fleein' awa';
He wi' little mense hameward did wander, O.

O' a' the brisk wooers that flock about Nell,
There's nane now has charms like the tailor, O;
She jeers them awa', sin' that nicht's wark befell,
And no ane can guess what doth ail her, O.
She scorns a' their gear, and their bonnet-laird pride,
And vows that the tailor's got her for his bride;
Wi' a chiel o' sic mettle she'd range the warld wide,
For he's like a champion for valour, O.

FAR BEYOND THE ISLE OF KILDA.

[_]

TUNE—“Roy's wife of Aldivalloch.”

Far beyond the Isle of Kilda,
Far beyond the Isle of Kilda,
The sun his daily course hath run,
And I must meet with fair Matilda.

Her father is a chieftain brave
As e'er wore tartan plaid or bonnet,
But vows no blood of Saxon slave
His clan will e'er have grafted on it.

Far beyond, &c.

I daurna in his ha' appear
For fear I rouse his Highland anger,
Sae I maun lanely linger here
Till she arrives who soothes my languor.

Far beyond, &c.

A maid sae sweet and sae discreet
Ne'er brush'd the dew frae heather blossom;
Sae witchin' kind, sae pure her mind,
'Tis heaven to clasp her to my bosom.

Far beyond, &c.

199

I've beauties seen by winding Forth,
I've beauties seen where Clyde meanders,
But there's a beauty farther north,
Wi' her my fancy ever wanders.

Far beyond, &c.

'Twere mean that I, a border knight,
Should bide a norlan' chieftain's fury,
Sae, lang ere dawn of morning light,
Matilda leaves the heights of Jura.

Far beyond the Isle of Kilda,
Far beyond the Isle of Kilda,
The shades of night assist my flight
To gay Tweedside with fair Matilda.

THINK OF THY VOWS.

[_]

TUNE,—“The dead of night.”

When the blithe smile of spring
Decks the woods all in green,
And the birds sweetly sing
By the smooth winding stream;
When the daisies snow-white
Gem the green grassy lea,
I'll hie with delight,
My dear Mary, to thee.

Oh! think of thy vows
In the green hazel bower,
On the sun-gilded knows,
By yon grey ruined tower;
When the sun's yellow rays
Slanted o'er the green plain,
And thy voice joined the lays
Of the pipe of thy swain:—

There you vow'd, if sweet spring
Should to us e'er return,
And the merle again sing
In the shade by the burn,
That thy hand and thy heart
Should for ever be mine;
When we'd meet, ne'er to part,
At kind Hymen's fair shrine.

200

FAR AWA' FRAE THEE, ANNA.

[_]

TUNE—“Haud awa frae me, Donald.”

Far awa', far awa',
Far awa' frae thee, Anna,
I alane can tell the pain
I felt when leavin' thee, Anna.

When first I saw the wileing glance
Shot frae thy lovely e'e, Anna,
My heart sunk into love's soft trance,
I thought on nought but thee, Anna.

Far awa', &c.

The linn, wi' noddin' birks o'erhung,
Soft murmur'd down the vale, Anna,
Where sweet the mavis o'er us sung,
While whisp'ring love's kind tale, Anna.

Far awa', &c.

Thy charms beguiled the longest night,
Made short the longest day, Anna—
Bewitch'd me sae, while in thy sight,
They wadna let me gae, Anna.

Far awa', &c.

But now, when forced frae thee to roam
Far on a distant shore, Anna,
I pine in sorrow, while from home
And thee, whom I adore, Anna.

Far awa', &c.

Yet still hope's distant smile I see,
To glad the prospect drear, Anna,
That I shall yet return to thee,
Whom I o'er all revere, Anna.

Far awa', &c.

THE FORTUNATE WANDERER.

[_]

AIR,—“Owre the muir amang the heather.”

Shepherd, rowe me in thy plaid,
And screen me frae the stormy weather;
I've stray'd on that bleak mountain side,
Forlorn and dreary 'mang the heather.

201

Owre the muir amang the heather,
Owre the muir amang the heather;
The lad I loved inconstant proved,
Which makes me wander 'mang the heather.

With him I stray'd through glen and glade,
By meadow green, and purling fountain;
But now I'm left, of peace bereft,
To wander lanely on the mountain.
Owre the muir, &c.
But now frae joy debarr'd am I,
To stray and weep amang the heather.

His languid eyes and frequent sighs,
Bespoke a passion felt sincerely,
When close he press'd me to his breast,
And vow'd he'd ever love me dearly.
Owre the muir, &c.
By burn and brae, we spent the day,
On tales o' love wi' ane anither.

“Forgo thy fears, dry up thy tears,
Nor seek a faithless lover blindly;
If in my cot, thou'lt share my lot,
Here is the heart will treat thee kindly.
Owre the muir, &c.
Aloof frae strife, we'll glide through life,
Where lambkins play amang the heather.

Come in my plaid, my lovely maid,
Nor longer roam the mountain dreary;
Through summer mild, and winter wild,
Wi' me thou shalt be ever cheery.
Owre the muir, &c.
Till life's last day, I'll with thee stay,
Where blooms the bonny purple heather.

To him she clings—he round her flings
His tartan plaid, the rain defending,
Her tear-soil'd eye now beams wi' joy,
While rapture's heaving sigh's ascending.
Owre the muir, &c.
Baith nicht and day, she's glad and gay,
Wi' her dear swain amang the heather.

202

FU' LEESOME AND LEAL IS MY LADDIE.

[_]

AIR,—“Fie let us a' to the Bridal.”

Fu' leesome and leal is my laddie,
And blithe is the blink o' his e'e;
At partin' my heart is richt sad aye,
At meetin' it dances wi' glee.
Yestreen we sat down 'mang the clover,
When the gloamin' her veil o'er us flang;
The time flew sae fleet wi' my lover,
I wist na till mornin' larks sang.

A string o' blue pearlin's he boucht me
When I gaed to last Lammas fair,
And syne to the dancin' he soucht me,
And muckle he on me did ware.
Noo, aye when my pearlin's I blink on,
It mak's me baith blithesome and wae,
Far aften their cost I do think on,
Has gart him toil mony lang day.

Nae lairdship has he but his labour,
Whilk's a' my folk 'gainst him can say;
But whae'er respects guid behaviour
Maun roose my true laddie for aye.
For love I will wed my dear laddie,
And tak' whate'er fortune may send,
For true love and virtue sae steady
Will surely come to a guid end.

THE LASS WITH THE AUBURN HAIR.

[_]

AIR,—“Tally-ho.”

The crimson dawn flushed in the east,
To wake the smiling morn;
The lark his cheering lay increased,
On dew-wet wings upborne.
The mavis sang in greenwood shade,
Fresh flowers perfumed the air,
When first I spied, in yon green glade,
The lass with the auburn hair.

203

Sweet lass with the auburn hair,
Dear lass with the auburn hair;
She stole my joy with her bright eye,
The lass with the auburn hair.

Let swains seek nature's garden through,
For flowers of sweetest dye,
As emblems of the snowy brow,
Red lip, fresh cheek, bright eye.
But though the rose's blush is sweet,
And the lily's bloom is fair,
They ne'er can vie those charms replete
Of the lass with the auburn hair.
Sweet lass, &c.
Dear lass, &c.
Devoid of art, she's won my heart,
The lass with the auburn hair.

What though her sire a woodman be,
In yonder glen remote?
What though no courtly form she sees
Within her humble cot?
Her native grace all art disarms,
In features, form, and air;
Description fails to paint the charms
Of the lass with the auburn hair.
Sweet lass, &c.
Dear lass, &c.
No more I want, that fate can grant,
But the lass with the auburn hair.

The lamb that's sporting on the hill
Is not more mild than she;
The thrush that's singing by the rill
More blythsome ne'er can be.
The joy that stole across my soul
Was bliss beyond compare,
When she complied to be my bride,
The lass with the auburn hair.
Sweet lass, &c.
Dear lass, &c.
Unknown to strife, I'll spend my life
With the lass with the auburn hair.

204

THE LUCKLESS WOOER.

[_]

AIR,—“Rattlin' roarin' Willie.”

O, wandought is waly Willie,
Wha wons in the warlock glen,
At wooin' he's cauldrife and silly,
An's been slichtit by nine or ten;
He's been slichtit by nine or ten,
When he paid a' the dues o' the kirk,
And yet the auld gleyt doitit havrel
Came to woo me yestreen when 'twas mirk.

Loud the win' 'mang the ash-trees was brawlin',
When Willie dang up our back-door,
He stay'd na to chap the hallan,
But cam' lampin' ben the floor;
He cam' clinchin' ben the floor,
Wi' his bonnet ajee on his head;
Guid's! thinks I, or I'd marry ye, Willie,
I'd rather lie down wi' the dead.

Wi' kind welcome my mither did set him
Close up by the chimla cheek,
Where he thowt his cauld han's and he het him,
And dichtit his blae drappin' beak;
And at me he gied mony a keek,
As I sat wi' my seem in the neuk;
But a' his hale crack was o' thrashin',
And delvin', and drivin' o' muck.

But a tirl came upon the back winnock,
Whilk was a blythe signal to me,
Weel I kenn'd that it was my ain Sannock,
And my heart did gae dancin' wi' glee;
When I raise Willie looked ajee,
Syne he dichted his een, and he sigh'd;
But, gaun out, thinks I, fare-ye-weel, Willie,
Ye'll sit late if ye see me the nicht.

205

THE BRAES OF BUSBIE.

[_]

AIR,—“The braes of Busbie.”

What anguish wrung my throbbing heart,
When fate decreed I should depart
Far from the lovely banks of Cart,
And the bonny braes of Busbie, O.
In vain I strove to check the sigh,
Or tear that glitter'd in the eye,
While thinking that the hour drew nigh
Which drove me far from Busbie, O.

'Twas not to leave the verdant bowers,
Nor glen, bespread with summer flowers;
'Twas not to leave that stream, which pours
Its murmuring tide through Busbie, O.
But parting with Eliza dear,
Of blooming cheek, and eye so clear—
'Twas that which brought the frequent tear,
When I took leave of Busbie, O.

Though far from her embraces torn,
Yet oft on fancy homeward borne,
With her I sat beneath yon thorn,
Among the braes of Busbie, O.
And cheering hope, with radiant smile,
Would still the fleeting hours beguile,
When far from my dear native isle,
And the bonny braes of Busbie, O.

But now return'd, again I rove
With her, by lonely grot or grove,
And fan the mutual flame of love,
Among the braes of Busbie, O.
Let heroes chase the phantom Fame,
Peru's rich ore let misers claim—
My only wish, my dearest aim,
Is that sweet nymph of Busbie, O.

206

THE BLOOM OF KILBRIDE.

[_]

AIR,—“The flower of Dunblane.”

O blythe are the maids where the Forth wanders clearly,
And blooming and gay on the banks of the Clyde,
But none of them all can I love half so dearly,
As charming Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride.
She's cheerful as morning when gilding the mountain,
Or calm and serene as the mild even-tide,
And fair as the lily that blows by the fountain,
Is lovely Eliza, the bloom of Kibride:
Is lovely Eliza,
Is charming Eliza,
Is peerless Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride.

Her ringlets are yellow, her voice clear and mellow,
The blush of the rose on her cheek doth reside;
Her black eyes are wiling, where modesty, smiling,
Displays half divine the fair bloom of Kilbride.
Oft lonely I wander, and pleasantly ponder
On all her dear charms by clear Calder's green side;
Roam, fancy, thou rover, thy fairy-fields over,
Thou'lt cull not a flower like the bloom of Kilbride:
Like lovely Eliza,
Like charming Eliza,
Like peerless Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride.

A garland I wove her of each woodland flower,
That blooms fresh and fair by the streamlet's clear tide,
And softly I bound it, 'neath yon birken bower,
Around the fair brow of the bloom of Kilbride.
When gently I press'd her, and fondly caress'd her,
And vow'd in my love she might always confide,
She sank on my bosom, the virtuous blossom,
My charming Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride:
My lovely Eliza,
My charming Eliza,
My peerless Eliza, the bloom of Kilbride.

207

I WILL STRAY TO YON GLEN.

[_]

AIR,—“The braes o' Balquidder.”

I will stray to yon glen
Where the clear burnie's rowin',
Round the green fairy den,
In the sun's rays a' glowin'.
Where the thrush thrills his lay
'Mang the green birks sae clearly,
I will spend the lang day
Wi' the lass I like dearly.

O! what transport to lie
'Neath the broom's gowden blosom,
Wi' my hale earthly joy
Fondly pressed to my bosom!
While the mild western breeze
Fans the sweet-scented bowers,
And the saft hum of bees
Flows amang the wild flowers.

Let the vague city beau,
Sae affectedly witty,
Woo the gay belle of show,
Deck'd in satins sae pretty;
I nae envy can feel
For his heart-teasing treasure,
Since my Mary, mair leal,
Bears me love without measure.

Then I'll stray to yon glen
Where the clear burnie's rowin',
Round the green fairy den,
In the sun's rays a' glowin'.
And there spend my hale life,
And will ne'er think it dreary,
Far frae wild jarring strife,
Wi' the lass I like dearly.

MARY, THE MAID O' THE INN.

[_]

AIR,—“I loe ne'er a laddie but ane.”

I've wandered o'er muir and o'er dale,
A courtin' baith early and late;
I to mony hae whispered love's tale—
Some were cadgie, and ithers seem'd blate;

208

But a lass wi' sae charmin' a mien,
Among either strangers or kin,
I declare I ha'e never yet seen,
As young Mary the Maid o' the Inn.

Modest mildness doth glance from her e'e,
Sweetest complaisance plays on her smile,
She frae pride and frae envy is free,
Fraut wi' charms my hale heart to beguile.
I would fain my warm passion disclose,
But I kenna weel how to begin,
Sic a tumult within my breast glows,
For sweet Mary the Maid o' the Inn.

When at gloamin' my labour is owre,
I sit by the ingle, and think
How the wearisome night I'll devour,
If I see nae dear Mary a blink;
Sae awa to her dwelling I hie,
To regale me wi' whisky or gin,
And the hours fleet as lichtning flee by
When wi' Mary the Maid o' the Inn.

My mither cries,—“Poor, silly fool,
To spend a' your siller in vain;
Trowth, I fear that your love will soon cool,
For a gawkie like her ye'r owre fain!”
But what's siclike clatter to me,
Even though what I do be a sin;
I maun ilka nicht birl my bawbee
Beside Mary the Maid o' the Inn.

Oh! Hymen, come show me thy smile,
And waft to thy altar my love,
Then the sorrows of life I'll beguile
With her charms, which aye constant will prove.
She wi' pleasure my cottage will glad,
All remote frae the world's jarring din;
Nought on earth can my bosom make sad,
When wi' Mary the Maid o' the Inn.

209

POEMS.

The Rich Man's Sabbath.

“Alas! that man hath so profaned
The sacred day by heaven ordain'd!”

The venal bard, who hangs upon the great
For patronage to aid a hapless muse,
Must squallid vice on virtue's throne instate,
And screen their impious deeds with shades profuse;
But me no servile mercenary views
Inspire, to mount, with Pegasian wing,
Gilding with varnish-wit the nauseous stews:
I ask no grace of noble peer or king;
Then 'wake, unfavour'd muse—the Rich Man's Sabbath sing.

Who has the bold effrontery to say
That Popish despotism in Britain reigns?
When her obscurest subject may pourtray
The sacrilegious conduct of her thanes?
Woe to the land that God's own day profanes!
For her Destruction's furbish'd sword doth gleam;
For this did Judah's children doleful strains
Pour forth, while captives by Euphrates' stream,
And pine “in servile chains,” uncheer'd by hope's fair beam.

The bells toll twelve: the theatre is shut,
And mirthful crowds now from the farce home hie;
But, 'mong these sons of pleasure, there is not
One soul now thinking of the misery
Awaiting vice in dread eternity,
When life's grand drama's o'er, and every soul
Stands naked at the bar of Deity!
Ah, pois'nous pleasure! which infects the bowl
Where lurks deception sly, and lords without control!

210

Sad, sad! such prelude to the day of rest!
To store the brain with such fantastic toys
Ferments the soul with an unhallow'd yeast,
That prayer or praise the mental palate cloys.
Thus wealth, allured by such delusive joys,
Sinks down to sleep upon his downy bed;
But direful dreaming all his rest destroys:
He tosses to and fro till night be fled,
And Sol o'ertop the hills, gilding the clouds with red.

Unwelcome shines the morn to him whose eye
Is unprepared to stand the silver light;
Unwelcome sounds the matin-bell hard bye,
That doth his dronish doseing fairly blight—
While he, perchance, on fancy's vagrant flight,
The nightmare vision sees of awful death,
And starts, with terror paralysed white,
Sore struggling, for a while, to draw his breath,
To hear the spectre groan—Macbeth! Macbeth! Macbeth!

Oh how unlike the Sabbath morn of him
Whom calm sobriety doth daily guide;
Whose mind for duty ne'er is out of trim,
Nor e'er for sport religion lays aside!
A stranger quite to all the pomp of pride,
He treads humility's sequester'd road;
He dares not, cannot anything deride
That bears the sanction of the word of God:
He counts this world a tent, and not his fix'd abode.

But should no theatre or masquerade
Intrude upon the Rich Man's Sabbath morn,
What hallow'd preparations are display'd
That mark a soul to heavenly pleasures born?
Say, does the sound of praise his house adorn?
Or bends the knee in penitential prayer?
Or does his brow treat scandal's tale with scorn?
Or dares he trust in God to slake his care?
Or list the orphan's wail, or widow's burden share?

His actions best can render the response:
The tree we judge just as we find its fruit;
Be 't sweet or bitter, we decide at once
What is the nature of both branch and root.
All morn throughout is heard th' incessant bruit

211

Of week-day talk and culinary toil,
The menials' laugh, and clamorous dispute
'Bout dresses, sweethearts, and such topics vile,
Unmeet for holy morn—wherewith they time beguile.

No check receive these sons and daughters rude
From master or from mistress; who likewise,
In their own way, as far aloof from good,
The duties of the Sabbath day despise:
As far their conduct from religion flies;
As low their converse, only more polite;
As heedless to obey the gospel ties;
As prone the good man's piety to slight;
And every way as far from duty's path upright.

But here the close analogy must end:
Mammon his ne plus ultra fixes sure;
The slavish servant must his toil attend,
Or page behind his lord, with air demure;
While he, a name and notice to secure,
Rolls off to church, with family elate,
Nor ever fails most copiously to pour
The minted metal in the clanging plate,
Which gains the obsequious bow of wardens at the gate.

Oh cursed leaven of the Pharisees,
Which penetrates the heart with snaky wiles,
And taints the soul with ruinous disease,
And cheats the world with fair external smiles!
Ah me! what crowds the demon sly beguiles,
With glossing falsehood, into ruin's slough;
Then at the last their folly sore reviles,
When sunk in the abyss of endless woe;
And only then appears their worst though hidden foe.

With pompous air he decks the gay front pew,
To catch the observation of the throng;
But ne'er in church his jolly face doth show
To join the worship's introductive song,
Or hear if prayers be orthodox or wrong:
'Twould seem too servile thus to honour God;
'Twere an intrusion rash upon bon ton,
Which would not miss just censure's smarting rod,
For bearing, in this age, religion's cumbrous load.

212

What charity can judge his heart sincere,
Although he sit with solemn air, demure?
Alas! his soul religion comes not near,
But wanders o'er the fields of sense impure:
Here Satan spreads his sacrilegious lure
To wile his thoughtless mind from peace astray;
Till, tangled in his silken gin secure,
The hapless victim deem the hallow'd day
The most obstructive pest that lies in pleasure's way.

Then roll the preacher's periods dully on,
Like plaintive murmur of the distant stream;
Meanwhile the pompous hearer's mind is gone
Far out of reach, and traffic is the theme:
Or, ruminating on some sensual dream,
The pleasing phantom lulls him o'er asleep:
Thus, on his callous mind, no dazzling gleam
Of sharp conviction's sword can make him weep,
Of carnal pleasure's cup his soul hath drunk so deep.

What call ye this, ye theologians? tell
If 'tis not warfare 'gainst the Holy Spirit?
And what, but the profoundest gulf of hell,
Can such a soul at last think to inherit?
The torment due, what sin-steel'd mind can bear it?
Seal'd by that Word which shall for aye abide:
Alas! while doom'd to suffer for demerit,
'Twill wish its exit lay in suicide,
And 'neath the pond'rous hills from God's ire seek to hide.

“Avaunt! ye dull suggestions of the brain,
That sour life's cup!” the rich man inly cries;
Yawns, rubs his eyes, and looks his watch again,
And every art to murder time he tries:
The sermon ended, joy illumes his eyes;
Work more congenial soon his senses greets;
The well-cull'd dinner party, rich and wise,
Concentre from their several retreats,
To exile sober thought with bounteous nature's sweets.

Eigh! what a blithe suffusion warms the heart,
Expands the mind, and animates the frame!
Conviviality can charms impart
For which dry language hath not found a name:
The heaped board vends no sensations tame,

213

But greets the tingling senses with delight;
While wine the jocund fancy doth inflame,
And wit bursts forth, in corruscations bright,
To gild the solemn lour that dulls the Sabbath night.

But should Episcopalian customs loose
Have form'd his manners southward of the Tweed,
The hallow'd day meets more avow'd abuse,
Approaching nearer Rome's infernal creed:
'Twere then no marvel though he forth should lead
The yelling kennel 'mong the woods and rocks,
And thus profane Jehovah's gracious meed
By clam'rous pursuit of the hare or fox:
Such sacrilegious work heaven's Legislator mocks!

When night's dark veil o'er hill and dale is spread,
And home he gallops from his rural sport,
To banish dreary slumbers from his head,
The fiddle, haply, is his next resort;
Or cards, accursed, time's burden may support,
While wife and children in the pastime join:
With all the modish sweetness of the court
On sin's soft couch they heedlessly recline,
Spurning, 'mid clearest light, God's overture divine.

Thus tort'ring time is murder'd, till the call
Of Epicurus' supper soon produce;
Afresh boon joy pervades the festive hall,
Roused by the fragrance of a roasted goose
Or turkey—better far than bitter grouse
For satiating the keen edge of appetite—
With store of spirits, and the grape's sweet juice,
That on the palate tell with true delight,
To cheer the soul if sad, and fancy to excite.

Jejunely trolls the dull routine of talk,
In which devotion dares not show her face;
Yet in society's sublimest walk
These sentimentalists hold highest place;
Too proud to pray for God's redeeming grace,
Or render thanks for temp'ral wants supplied,
Where can we aught like true religion trace,
That may with love's fair robe defection hide,
Or show that in their souls doth heavenly grace reside?

214

Poor preparation for the couch of rest
A day thus spent in sense's regions rude,
In broad defiance of that high behest
Promulged on Sinai for man's greatest good!
Alas! the soul that thus loathes heavenly food
At last must starve in want's profoundest woe,
When the vain call of keen solicitude
Can never melt Jehovah, now its foe,
To quench the flames intense, that sting with endless throe.

Return, while mercy calls, ye rich, ye great!
The work requires your most energic power;
“The way is narrow, and the gate is strait,”
And countless snares beset you every hour:
But not on you alone shall vengeance shower
His coals of juniper, of awful sting;
For dread Omnipotence will all devour
Who seek not shelter 'neath Immanuel's wing:
Then kneel both rich and poor to heaven's triumphant King!

An Acrostic.

VENI, VIDI, VICI—I came, I saw, I conquered.

Veil'd in humanity's dark shroud,
Eternal Power and Wisdom came,
No pomp he wore to rouse the crowd,
In rapture to extol his fame.

Virtue, he saw, had fled the world;
Ire, fierce as hell, the sceptre sway'd;
Demoniac powers their vengeance hurl'd,
In wrath, on man's devoted head.

Victorious then did Jesus wield,
In Godhead's might, his flaming sword,
Carrying sheer conquest o'er the field:
In songs of triumph praise the Lord.

A sentence which Cæsar caused to be written on a table, and carried aloft, when he triumphed after a signal victory. —Vide Prid.

215

The Convert's Hymn.

The gospel has balm for the guilt-laden heart,
Which wild boasting reason could never impart;
But man, thoughtless man! does resist her mild call,
Though kindly and graciously proffer'd to all.
How dull once the day! and how dark once the night!
And creation disclosed not one charm to my sight,
When in sin's snaring, wild, trackless path I did roam,
I found no contentment abroad nor at home:
In vain tried the sun to bring pleasure with dawn,
Or to glad my stung mind with the dew-spangled lawn!
In vain did the birds chaunt the sweet march of day,
From the green-tufted bough and the sweet blooming spray;
Or the brook rippling roll through the flower-spangled glen,
When in languor I stole from the gay haunts of men!
No: sun, birds, nor brook brought no comfort to me,
Nor from sin's chilling pangs could me ease, cure, or free.

'Twas when death's black banner was streaming around,
And hope's cheering lamp quite in darkness was found,
That the blood-dropping Cross rose effulgent afar,
And dispell'd with its rays all the dark foes of war;
Down prostrate I fell 'fore its life-giving blaze,
Which glared on each sin with its heart-searching rays:
How horrid the sight of a mind thus disclosed,
And to wrath and to hell's flaming torture exposed!
But how cordial the prospect to me, when I found
That a balsam prepared was for each bleeding wound:
On the death-roll of sin, which the gospel unfurl'd,
Shone pardon and peace, life and love to the world;
Who should, by repentance and faith, it embrace,
Their sins would the blood of Immanuel efface.

Wide, wide yawn'd the gap, on the brink of the grave,
Till the Saviour arose, me to seek and to save;
He banish'd the spectre extinction away,
And did show to me life without end or decay.

Hail, glorious redemption! thy power I revere;
At thy sight death and woe, sin and hell disappear:
Thou wast plann'd ere yon golden orbs shone thro' the sky,
And thy objects shall live when yon bright lamps shall die.

216

Now, unmoved, I can think of the loud crack of doom,
Nor with terror I muse on the cold silent tomb;
For the trumpet's loud clang calls me up to a crown,
And the grave lights a sun that shall never go down.

A Hymn.

Thy glory, O omnific God,
In awful radiance shone,
Ere angels heaven's pure courts had trode,
Or sung around thy throne:
Millions of ages ere the hour
When first the sun his rays did pour
On Eden's roseate peaceful bower,
Thou blissful dwelt'st alone.

What mind can grasp the scene sublime,
When, from the ebon gloom,
Creation struck the march of time,
And night did backward boom?
Then flamed in native light each sun,
Its course each planet fleet begun,
While comets rapidly did run
Through space's boundless womb.

The beauteous whole from chaos rose
At thy volition grand,
Which power and wisdom boundless shows
To man in every land:
Conviction for the sceptic hence
Clear demonstration doth dispense,
And from his mind the vapours dense
Dispels—which truth withstand.

But, oh! more glorious shone thy power
When thou, for fallen man,
Relief sought'st 'gainst the needful hour,
And didst redemption plan!
Here flames the attribute of Love,
The wonder of the hosts above,
With splendour, all in heaven to move,
But which they ne'er can scan.

217

Lord, let the death of Jesus be
My only hope and joy,
Which only can from sin set free,
And Satan's power destroy:
Oh may the blissful gospel call
Be duly prized by me—by all!
Lord, free from sin's tyrannic thrall,
And nought else can annoy!

Winter's Approach.

Now the reaped fields are bare,
While the farmer's heart is glowing;
Now the piercing boreal air
Keenly o'er the waste is blowing.

Banish'd from the evening sky
Is the swiftly gliding swallow,
And the redbreast's hopping nigh,
And the woods are sere and sallow.

Oft the sportsman's thund'ring gun
On the startled ear is swelling,
Till the ruddy setting sun
Drive him to his jocund dwelling.

Little cheer the russet plain
Offers to the cow'ring cattle,
While descends the chilling rain,
Or the biting hail blasts rattle.

Plaintive sighs the water-fall,
With unequal cadence pealing,
As, across the mind of all,
Languor's dreary power is stealing.

Silent now is yonder shade,
Where oft sang the thrush so mellow;
Drooping, round the sweeping glade,
Hang the linden's branches yellow.

'Midst the woods the children stray
Where the clust'ring wild-fruit dazzle,
Tearing from the rustling spray
Fruits of bramble, sloe, and hazle.

218

Now the dreary nights return,
When the brawling storms, descending,
Burst from their terrific urn,
All fierce winter's horrors blending.

Happy he, who, by his fire,
Lists the tempest wildly raving,
Bless'd, with all his heart's desire,
In the horn of Ceres waving.

He nor heeds the breme blast blow,
Lightning's flash, nor growling thunder,
Nor the surge of driving snow,
Hiding sheep and shepherds under.

But how sad the beggar's lot,
Doom'd by penury to wander,
Who might fill some happy cot
On what spendthrifts vainly squander.

Sadly throbs the feeling soul,
Mis'ry's woeful case while viewing;
And the tears of pity roll,
All her pallid cheeks bedewing.

What strange petrifying glue
Shields, with flinty incrustation,
Their hard hearts, who heedless view
Pining want without vexation.

List, oh list! ye born to state,
The heart-rending tale of sorrow
Which now flows without your gate;
Heaven will you reward to-morrow.

Darker frowns the mirky sky,
O'er the sable landscape spreading,
And the warping snow doth fly,
Which the weary trav'ller's dreading.

Thicker still the virgin store
Drives along the whit'ning mountain,
Till are seen and heard no more
Sobbing rill nor sighing fountain.

219

Leafless woods, with branches white,
Are bedeck'd to shield the raven,
While on rocks, with crystal bright,
Frosts enchanting forms have graven.

Sigh not, Fancy! soon again
Frost and snow shall be discarded;
All the ire of hail and rain
Soon shall vanish disregarded.

Soon the placid smile of spring
Shall dispel the gloom of winter;
Music through the land shall ring:
Then the shades with joy thou'lt enter.

STANZAS On a Starry Winter Night.

The sun is set behind the hill,
The wind's asleep, the air is chill,
The world is clad in snow;
No sound assails the watchful ear,
Save when the distant linn I hear,
With pealing cadence, flow:
The dusky haze fumes down the vale,
And crusts the hoary spray;
The owl resumes her frightful wail
From yonder castle grey;
As, weary and dreary,
The trav'ller plods along,
Benighted, while frighted
By her terrific song.

Now, through the azure vault of heaven,
No dense and devious cloud is driven,
To intercept the light;
But, round and round, with golden rays,
Unnumber'd stars effulgent blaze,
With scintillation bright.
Great Jupiter, with monarch grace,
Leads on the brilliant host,
And wheels his course through boundless space,
Nor quits his destined post.

220

No jarring nor warring
Among those orbs is found,
But lightly and brightly
They sweep their mystic round.

Like some triumphant warrior bold,
All garnish'd o'er with gleaming gold,
Orion mounts on high;
He, vertic to the burning line,
Doth in refulgent beauty shine
To every human eye:
The raging Bull, in fiery red,
And glowing Twins, appear;
While Perseus, o'er Medusa's head,
High waves his sabre clear;
The Pleiades and Hyades
Like topaz jewels glance,
That gild the Queen with peerless heen,
Who leads the courtly dance.

Bright flames the frigid arctic Bear,
While calm the Lady-in-her-Chair
High mounts the vault sublime:
Boötes, in the north-east sky,
Lets Cara and Asterion fly
Throughout the azure clime;
The Lion, Britain's potent guard,
With Cancer, red doth roll,
While Draco and Camelopard
Wheel round the steady pole:
All streaming and beaming
With innate, glorious light,
Both clearing and cheering
The sullen gloom of night.

But who those sumless orbs can name
That through the bournless welkin flame,
So beauteous and so grand;
Thick as the dew-drops that adorn
The verdant fields at rosy morn,
When Sol illumes the land?
Around creation's outskirts wide
Is wound the Milky Way,
Whence glimmer through the awful void
The cloud-like nebulæ.

221

The comet doth roam it,
With bright protracted train,
Astounding, confounding,
The fearful, loreless swain.

The astronomic sage in vain
Essays to count the endless train
That through the gloom appear;
In vain his ardent mind he racks
To find their hair-breadth parallax;
The task is too severe:
Far past the bounds of human ken
These truths mysterious lie,
To teach the haughty sons of men
Profound humility:
But they still astray still
From lessons so benign,
Do plan still to scan still
Omniscience, though divine!

Could He, for nought but gaudy show,
Create those flaming orbs to glow
Round this small world in vain?
No! reason cries; for still we see
Wealth, join'd with strict frugality,
In all his works remain:
They, if analogy we trust,
Life's green abodes may be,
Whose 'habitants, unknown by lust,
Sip pure felicity;
All strangers to dangers
Which we, accursed, meet,
Where no care e'er frown'd there,
To sour their bliss complete.

How solemn, awful! that great day
Which sweeps those brilliant lamps away
From being's gay domain!
When, at the thund'ring trump of doom,
They vanish, in primeval gloom,
No more to shine again!
When fate's dark curtain shall be furl'd,
And every soul shall see,
Within the intellectual world,
His endless destiny:

222

In pleasure past measure
On heaven's bright plains to dwell,
Else groaning and moaning
In gloomy vaulted hell.

Now, gilding mountain, tower, and vale,
The Moon wide spreads her saffron veil
Athwart the twinkling heaven;
Eclipsed by her more yellow light,
The stars, and boreales bright,
Far from the sight are driven:
She cheers the nightly trav'ller's path,
While all is drear and still,
And lights the drifty, lonely rath,
To shepherds faint and chill.
I home now will roam now
To my low-roof'd abode,
While wondering, and pondering
Upon the works of God.

Ode to Spring.

Now winter's hurly-burly's done,
Again I see the cheering sun
Low rising o'er the heath-clad hill,
And glittering on the mossy rill:
Again the infant daisies spring,
And early larks attempt to sing;
Sweet snowdrops tuft the streamlets' brink,
And gladden in the sunny blink:
Once more I hear the ploughman's lay
Resound, to cheer the toilsome day;
While loud the lapwing, plaintive, shrill,
Screams o'er the lonely distant hill.

Sweet nurse to Flora, gentle Spring,
Thy blithesome power I love to sing;
Fair emblem of eternal day,
To thee I contribute my lay!
My rural haunts I now resume
Among the sweetly budding broom,

223

And tend the cowslip's humble bell
On sloping glade or dreary dell,
Where fairy bands oft sportive play
Till the break of rosy day.
Fondly, through the fragrant birk,
'Lone, I'll roam till it is mirk,
List'ning to the murm'ring stream,
Gazing on the lightning's gleam,
As it, glaring, flashes high
Across the dark beclouded sky.
Take the crowd's ear-grating noise
Ye who solitude despise;
Jaded riot's banquet sip
Till it gall the tasting lip;
Or revel in the midnight ball,
To music, in the splendid hall,
And drink till strumpet-surfeit pall:
More dear to me the streams and rocks,
The balmy birks and monarch oaks,
The honeysuckle's flavorous bower,
The ruined daw-frequented tower—
Dearer than mirth-inspiring bowl
To me's the lonely wailing owl.

O! nature, thee I much revere;
Thy voice is sweeter to my ear,
Thy look more pleasant to my eye,
Than art's stiff boasted symmetry.
How luscious is the grand contrast—
Spring's whisp'ring breath to winter's blast!
This chills the heart with terror wild,
That charms the soul with cadence mild.
Now music flows from every spray
To cheer the lab'rer's hours away;
Now gay, the lately callow trees,
Leaf-clad, do rustle in the breeze,
And fields resume their gaudy green,
To banish heart-corroding teen;
The primrose decks the velvet glen,
Bog-lilies gem the marshy fen;
And now the flower-ransacking bee
Dandelion's golden smile doth see;

224

For to the north hoar winter's fled,
And spring's blithe look our isle doth glad.

But whence, O Spring, is this, thy power
To gladden man, bird, tree, and flower?
It is Jehovah's grand donation
To keep in being all creation;
Therefore to Him, first cause of all,
Let heaven and earth down prostrate fall.

ELEGAIC STANZAS

ON THE HAPLESS FATE OF THE COVENANTERS AT Bothwell Bridge.

Ye fields that have witness'd the contest of war,
When furiously roll'd persecution's red car;
Thou stream that hast listen'd the widow's complaints,
When their husbands they sought 'midst the slaughter of saints;
O! spurn not the tribute I pour to their name,
Who all shine eternised on the bright roll of fame.

Their voices I hear, from the altar of God,
Loudly cry, “Lord, how long shall it be ere thy rod
Sweep in vengeance their names quite away from below,
For the blood they have shed at the altar of woe?”
That blood, lovely Clyde, on death's terrible day,
Dyed thy pure limpid tide 'midst the woeful affray!

What heart patriotic can think of the scene,
Unmoved at their suff'ring? few, surely, I ween!
What eye but clear glistens, bedimm'd with a tear,
When the woeful event of the contest they hear?
None, surely, who rightly religion maintain,
And who wish stainless truth over error to reign.

How sweet sang the lark on the dawning of morn,
And the merle and thrush from the white flow'ring thorn!
But their warbling so dulcet died dreary and dumb
'Neath the harsh grating swell of the trumpet and drum,
While the death-boding march of the serried ranks
Shed a horror unknown to smooth Clyde's verdant banks!

225

The yellow broom gaily was waving in view,
And the daisy and vi'let were wet with the dew;
But, alas! how appalling, how alter'd the sight,
When they lay drench'd in blood ere the frowning of night!
As the thick sulph'rous smoke, boiling darkly and dun,
Quite excluded the light of the midsummer sun.

Full many a prayer had been proffer'd that morn,
On the censer of faith, for their state so forlorn;
Full many a tear had been bitterly shed
By relations, who still the sad issue did dread;
Full many a soul was o'erwhelmed with fear,
When the thundering cannon loud peal'd on the ear!

Oh! dire was the sight on the Bridge, when, a-flying,
They stumbled, they fell, on the dead and the dying;
When the bloodhounds of Monmouth and Graham, fast pursuing
The saints of the Lord, they were hacking and hewing!
Nor could Hackston his forces, confused, get to rally,
When for safety they sought the wild mountain and valley.

Why, why had the Lord then his servants deserted,
When the cause of the cross they so bravely asserted?
And mourn'd o'er the land weeping fathers and mothers,
And widows and orphans, and sisters and brothers?
'Twas to show unto all, that his own time appointed
Had not then arrived, to relieve his anointed.

To Vice.

Avaunt! thou spectre dire and dun;
Thy sight I hate, detest, and shun;
Or frowning on thee gaze:
Thy sallow look and jaundiced eye
With deep abhorrence I espy,
And curse thy squallid ways.

I see, in thy protracted train,
Want, grief, remorse, and fear,
Who never trod the path to fame,
But still did counter steer:
Still bending, and tending
To objects mean and vile;
Though jarring, and warring
With poverty the while.

226

Although, in life's hope blooming morn,
Youth, heedless of the latent thorn,
Grasps sense's dazzling rose,
Yet mark the conscience-stinging wound,
Deep rooted in the heart, that's found,
Which age too often knows.

Else, wither'd in meridian prime,
He falls, a blasted bloom,
And, long ere pious nature's time,
Lies prostrate in the tomb.
Nor mirth here, nor birth here,
Relentless death reveres;
No crying nor sighing
Can melt his soul to tears.

Oh thou great Power who rulest above,
Whose greatest meed to man is love,
Guide me in virtue's way!
May garnish'd vice, that tyrant fell,
Who lures his captives down to hell,
Ne'er o'er me sceptre sway.

And when in death I mingle low
Among the silent dead,
Through faith I'll hope that love to know
Through which the Saviour bled;
In bright day, where night may
Not dim the lucid realm;
Where spleen ne'er, nor teen ne'er,
The joys divine shall 'whelm.

The Auld Weaver's Address

To the KING, PEERS, and COMMONS, in Parliament assembled, February, 1822.

Most gracious sacred potentate,
George IV. Dei gratia Rex!
Ye Peers, wha are by heirship great,
Wham politics perplex!
And you, ye Commons, wha maun wait
The rabble's nods and becks!

227

Hear me, the cursed fit-ba' o' fate,
Wham taxes sairly vex
Baith nicht and day.

Dame Pride, perchance, may cry, “Begone,
Thou elf of foul sedition!
Darest thou present, before the throne,
Thy mother-tongue petition?”
Yes: though to lare I'm scarcely known,
And mean be my condition,
I see the state is out o' tone,
And needs some sage physician,
In haste, this day!

Auld Britain, lang, in foreign wars,
Has warslet tough and dour,
And spite o' a' their clouts and scaurs,
Has sternly stood the stour;
Her scarlet ranks and hardy tars
Ha'e prappit sae her power,
That, 'neath the auspices o' Mars,
Her honour's handed, pure,
Down to this day.

When a' the nation, warm wi' joy,
Hail'd the return o' peace,
Blithe fancy did our minds up buoy
Wi' hopes that want would cease:
Baith priests and peers, wi' tales fu' coy,
Did prophesy release;
But, faith! they fawn'd but to destroy:
Their aim was just to fleece
Our fabs ilk day.

Ilk wicht, beneath his ain fig tree,
They pictured sittin' vogie,
While plenty, wi' invitin' e'e,
Still fill'd the ebbin' coggie;
But ceaseless toil instead, wae's me!
'Midst damp and oil-reek foggy,
Gars you a' strut wi' head fu' high,
While we croyn, bare and scroggy
As death, this day.

228

Your Majesty, wi' sapient e'e,
Perceives the nation's thrivin',
Forsooth, 'cause trade now blinks a-wee,
And revenue's revivin';
But poor bedrudged wichts like me,
What still wi' want are strivin',
Deem, on the rock o' bankruptcy,
Wi' rapid sweep, she's drivin'
Adrift this day.

I grant, your outgi'e is na sma'
In this, your peerless nation,
Nor would I ha'e you live ava'
Below your royal station;
But, guide's! within Westminster ha',
Upon your coronation,
The sum ye that day threw awa'
Surpasses calculation
On ony day.

“Retrench, reform!” ilk birkie cries,
Whene'er his fab's affeckit;
Ilk whig his eloquence hard plies,
In hopes to be respeckit:
But I, wha ne'er aspired to rise,
And ha'e been aye negleckit,
The State-bark trust to you sae wise,
And carena though ye wreck it,
I vow, this day.

Experience, sooth, will teach ye soon
The gratitude o' Russia,
And show the thanks for favours done
To Austria, France, and Prussia;
Thae faithless blades ha'e changed their tune,
And now richt fain would crush a'
That's left o' freedom 'neath the moon,
And your hale treasure wish a'
Their ain this day.

Spain ye supported, feichten for
The present constitution,
And on puir Boney barr'd the door,
Whilk wroucht his dissolution;

229

And can ye, a' the warld before,
Her leave to persecution
Frae tyrants, leagued wi' mad uproar,
And hope for absolution
On ony day?

But whare the means, God kens alane,
By whilk ye will support her,
For a' the nation shrieks wi' pain,
Wrung by financial torture:
If Wellington intend again
Frae bondage to escort her—
E'en tak' your will—Amen! Amen!
Your race will be the shorter
For that some day.

The Death o' Trade:

A DIRGE.

Sons o' the thin and sallow cheek,
Wha scarce can fen frae week to week,
Or, at the maist, your credit keep,
By labour sair, and want o' sleep;
Whase duds o' claise threadbare are worn,
Or, aiblins, tatter'd sair and torn;
In whase shoon-soles sic leaks ye spy
As do the souter's skill defy:
To you, wha breathe unwholesome air,
And tread the fitstaps o' despair,
I dedicate my waefu' lay,
And for your weelfare humbly pray;
So, whilst to you my tale I tell,
Remind, I'm o' your craft mysel'.

Poor Trade, lang gane in deep consumption,
Grew tired o' a' their pills and gumption,
And, having paid the doctor's fee,
Lay down contentedly to dee.
She fand her feeble constitution
Wad shortly meet its dissolution;
Her feckless pulse beat weak and slow,
Her een roll'd wildly to and fro;

230

Her pallid cheek, o' yirdy hue,
And quiverin' lip, were drear to view;
But, ere she closed her een in death,
She thus spak wi' her dyin' breath—
While round her bed, wi' tear-clad face,
Her vassals wail'd her hapless case:—

“Oh, sirs! for me nae langer grieve,
For I solicit nae reprieve;
I'm gaun the way o' a' the yirth,
Whilk to you should be cause o' mirth:
I've wi' misfortune warsled lang,
And stood her mony a fearfu' bang,
But now she's laid me on my back,
And robb'd me o' my hindmost plack;
Yet the vile unrelentin' hag
Doth o' her victory brag.
Alake a-day! ye'll see my en',
Wha kept ye canty butt-an'-ben;
In days o' yore I was respeckit,
But now I'm coungeir'd and negleckit,
And, like some tinkler's jaded ass,
I've landed at my hindmost pass—
E'en murder'd by thae ruffians fell
Wha gat my favours a' theirsel:
Sae thus do benefactors fare—
O' base ingratitude beware.

“Yet, though I enter death's dark portal,
Ye ken by nature I'm immortal,
For, like the phœnix burn'd in fire,
I dinna dee, but just transpire;
Sae, when I leave this rugged isle,
And seem as if extinct the while,
New plumed, and, like the peacock braw,
Ye'll find me in America.
Whare then will Albion's glory be,
That dazzled ilka gazin' e'e?
Whare then the navy's matchless pride,
That awed the nations far and wide?
The army, that did conquest wield,
And still were masters o' the field?
Whare now the glitterin' princely show,
That foil'd a' grandeur here below?

231

A' fled now, like an airy dream,
Or like the lichtning's short lived gleam!
Thus pride is humbled at the last
By fate's fell all-devouring blast;
Thus fades the grandeur o' the world,
Which once its matchless flags unfurl'd,
And sinks thus meanly, wildly low,
Beneath corruption's cureless blow!”

Nae mair she spak, but, wi' a groan,
She faulter'd out, “Ohone! ohone!”
Syne turn'd her face round to the wa',
And in a faint she wore awa'.
The news soon flew through a' the town,
And “Trade is dead” was a' the soun',
And at the corner o' ilk street
Great groups o' weavers ye wad meet,
Wi' sabbin' breasts and tear-stain'd face,
Lamentin' sair their hapless case;
And big-waim'd manufacturers aft
Hang strangled to the warehouse laft,
Or, haply, in some corner groanin',
Wi' nickit craig ye'd hear them moanin';
And, floatin' in the River Clyde,
Lay many a loathsome suicide.
Smiths, wrights, shoemakers, grocers, tailors,
Swall'd-kyted vintners, swearin' sailors,
Were loungin' through the streets, clean doitit,
Wi' want and grief grown capernoited;
Gaugers, wha erst a smuggler 'd fell,
Now beg a mouthfu' frae his stell;
And folk wha could drink noucht but tea
Wad brose or parritch gladly pree.
Sic alterations great to meet
Doth fill my heart and gar me greet,
For now our kintra's purse, we find,
Will scarcely cast against the wind;
They've roopit her o' a' kin coin
Wi' their eclat—kept-m---s' wine;
And, though puir folk got mony a deevil,
We'll soon a' be upon a level.
Then, hail! bless'd day, when rank or station
Are things unknown o'er a' the nation—
The thing design'd at our creation!

232

The Clachan New-Year Day.

CANTO FIRST. MORNING.

When winter reigns o'er hills and plains,
In garbs o' frost and snaw,
And the nor'-wasts envenom'd blasts
Wi' bitter rancour blaw;
When low the sun, through cranreuch d un,
Blinks frae the southern lift,
Time wheels us roun' ae honeymoon
That drives our cares adrift
Fu' fast that day.

Oh, for thy muse! great king o' rhymes,
Wha sang us Hallow-e'en,
Or yours, wha penn'd, in airer times,
Christ's Kirk upon the Green!
To paint the scenes o' rustic glee,
O' revelry and drinkin',
When frae the moral law we're free,
And void o' care and thinkin',
On New-year day.

Ilk spunky chield, ben in the spence,
Inspects his claise-kist shottle,
To see if stocks will stan', wi' mense,
The fillin' o' a bottle;
And housewives, wha their credit keep,
Ha'e a' things laid in store,
That lasses needna feign to sleep,
Should chields come to the door
Ere break o' day.

A wanton wicht was Wattie White,
Ne'er out o' tift for fun,
Whase only lass, and true delight,
Was merry Jenny Gunn;
And rampin' roarin' Tam M'Gee
Aye swore he wad her first-fit;
Frae a' the lave he'd bear the gree,
And gi'e them a begunk yet,
That vera day.

233

But scarce arrived the noon o' nicht
When Wattie was in's gear,
And up the gaet, wi' fitstap licht,
His course did quickly steer;
Tam dream'd o' feet upon the loan,
And bang'd up wi' a breinge,
But, darklins, tramped on a goan,
Syne tumbled wi' a reinge
On the floor that nicht.

He bans his mither's doitit brains,
That play'd him sic a shavie,
Limps through the floor, and girns and grains,
Like ane fash'd wi' the spavie;
Syne rumbled up the rakin' coal,
That shaw'd his shin a' bluid;
The sicht o' whilk he couldna thole,
But cursed in wrath; sae rude
Was he that nicht.

However, wi' a saft harn-clout
He got it sweel'd fu' swamp;
Bang'd on his claise, and sloiter'd out,
Like ane wha'd ta'en the cramp;
And soon fand, to his farther wae,
That grief comes seldom single,
For Wattie White, and twa-three mae,
Were perch'd round Jenny's ingle,
Fu' blithe, that morn.

Sae meikle blusterin' he had made,
He couldna face the core;
Chagrined and spited, aff he slade,
Like vengeance, frae the door,
Across the muir, to Maggie Lang,
A lass by few caress'd;
Sae miss'd the banter o' the thrang,
And was a welcome guest
To her that morn.

A cloud o' drift o'ercasts the lift,
The moon sets in the wast,
And ilka chield scuds fast for bield,
To shun the ragin' blast:

234

By this time licht's in ilka house,
Mirth reigns through a' the clachan,
And wooer chaps, wi' cracks fu' crouse,
Keep a' the lasses lauchin'
Richt loud that morn.

Rap, rap, plays Rab at Ringan's door:
“Wha's there?” auld Maggie cries,
Richt glad that nane had been before.
“Kent folk,” quoth Rabbie; “Rise.”
Auld Ringan, started frae a dream,
Wi' e'elids scarce ajar,
Bangs out the bed, like fireflaught's gleam,
And quickly draws the bar
O' the door this morn.

“A guid new-year I wish ye a'!”
Was Rab's first salutation;
Wi' that a swirl o' driftin' snaw
Gars Ringan change his station;
Sae ben the house he stugs bedeen,
Wi' heart now something bighted,
Chaps up the fire, rakes up his een,
Syne tells how he was frichted
In's sleep that nicht.

He dream'd auld Eppie Sym's peat-sack
Was lichted in a lowe,
Whilk fired Tam Borland's cart-house thack,
And brunt it stick-and stow;
And took Rab, reengin to win in,
For beagle Wattie's drum,
Sae he, new wauken'd wi' the din,
Out o' the bed did come,
Wi' a scud, that morn.

At Ringan's dream a laugh sae loud
Rab, Jock, et cetera, vented,
That Will a hostin fell, and spew'd,
And in a kink maist fainted.
The lasses, wauken'd wi' the soun',
Fu' brisk, cam' bouncin' ben—
The pick and wale o' a' the toun,
Wha gart the hearts o' men
Lowp fast this day.

235

Thine only is the power and art,
Unrivall'd, mystic nature!
To vend love's blinks, that fire the heart,
And brighten every feature.
Their cheeks and lips like roses red,
Een clear, in youdith glancin',
And lichtsome hearts, that humour shed,
Wad gar threescore gae dancin'
Wi' mirth this morn.

Ye sprightly belles, wha gaudy trip,
In gorgeous garbs attired,
(I own, to ha'e seen yon wanton skip,
My heart's been haflins fired,)
Fresh frae the toilet launch'd, complete,
Wi' paints, perfumes, and lotions,
'Neath parasols gaun down the street,
Ye kittle wooers' notions
Sublime by day:

But—start as early frae your bed,
Clap on their rustic dresses,
Compared wi' them, faith, I'se be rede
Ye'd meet but few caresses;
Nae greater share ye'd ha'e, I ween,
Amang our landward fair anes,
Than the mummy o' some Coptic queen,
By warlock antiquarians
Display'd this day.

But to our text. Bead twenty-three
Ilk birkie's bottle's bockin,
The vera fire and saul o' glee,
And ready wit, and jokin';
The lasses nae cauld distance shaw;
Ilk chield guid fortune blesses,
Wi' arms twined round a neck like snaw,
While he a fouth o' kisses
Enjoys this morn.

A' splorin' round a rantin' fire,
Than kings and queens mair happy,
Secure frae cauld, wi' love's desire,
And routh o' reamin' nappy;

336

While Ringan, in the twa-arm'd chair,
His pipe-shank clears, for suction,
Wi' Maggie's sma'est reelin' wire,
And clears aff the defluxion
Wi' a smoke this morn.

The snuff-mull and the pipe gae round,
And bread and cheese and glasses:
“A guid new-year” is aft the sound—
And “Scotland's bonnie lasses:”
E'en the guidwife, no yet a-fit,
To show she is in tune,
Drinks, “Ilka lad, o' mense and wit,
A wife ere it be done,”
Fu' frank this morn.

Just in the zenith o' their fun,
Love's cracks, and jokin's rare,
Rab scarce had hosted, and begun
To sing them Calder fair,
Whan in cam' bowlie Bauldy Baird,
Wi' richt ill-timed intrusion,
And syne blate Hugh, the wally laird—
Sae a' gaed to confusion
In a crack this morn.

Its circuit Bauldy's glass began,
While Nelly gied a sneer;
Rab, haudin't arm's-length in his han',
Says, “Hech! but crystal's dear:”
A' smirtlin round, till't cam' to Will,
Whare it fared little better;
Quoth he, “Guid faith, I'll wad a gill
Some lintie wants its water
For this the-day.”

It chanced that Bauldy's glass had fa'en
As he cam' owre the midden,
And tint its doup and shank, aff-han',
Whilk couldna weel be hidden.
Sic big affronts he couldna bear
By thae twa billies gi'en,
But raged and swore, that, cheap or dear,
There wad be blacken'd een
Ere lang this morn.

237

Soon wad there been a fearfu' fray,
For Bauldy wrath was fryin'—
But down the howm was heard a bray,
Frae some ane “Murther!” cryin'.
The house soon toom'd, and, down the craft,
To their nae sma' surprise,
They saw young Sandy founder aft
On's growf, and couldna rise
Himsel' that morn.

They hoist him up, and brang him in;
But, when he saw the licht,
His face grew white, his een grew blin'—
He fainted wi' the sicht.
His napkin's lowst, his bosom's bared,
He's in the big chair seated;
Cauld water on him is na spared,
Whilk soon his cure completed,
In a twitch, this morn.

Ilk face an anxious wish doth shaw,
Right keen to ken the cause o't,
While Sandy, wi' a face like snaw,
Begins to lowse his gazette.
“Oh, sirs!” quoth he, “I've seen the de'il
Gaun wi' a band o' witches;
At e'en I'll ne'er daur gang a fiel',
For I was maist in's clutches
This vera morn.”

“The de'il!” quo' Rab; “A' hours o' nicht
I've trudged through muir and dell,
But ne'er yet ha'e I got a sicht
O' aucht waur than mysel':
Be't de'il be't daw, I'm ane o' twa
To gi'e 't a fair inspection:”
“And I,” says Jock, “As firm's a rock,
Will be your rear protection,
Mysel', this morn.”

For arms, Rab took the big airn tangs,
And swore ilk clank wad fell ane,
And Jock the rusty sword down bangs,
Ne'er used since Mar's rebellion.

238

Like twa knights-errant, out they march,
By whisky's pith inspired,
To gi'e the howms a thorough search;
And, wow! but they were fired
Wi' pride that morn.

They pass the linn, turn round the shaw—
A place by fairies haunted—
There something hobbled 'mang the snaw,
And they grew rather daunted;
But, gatherin' courage, on they hie,
And aff the goblins skelter:
'Tis Grey's black toop, they soon descry,
And twa ewes! seekin' shelter
Frae the storm this morn.

Halescart, victorious, back they come,
And tell the hale narration;
Poor Sandy's dung baith deaf and dumb
Wi' jaw and botheration:
Wi' patience lang their jibes he stood,
Till they gaed past a' bearin';
Syne left the house in crankous mood,
Whiles greetin', and whiles swearin'
In ire this morn.

But, meetin' wi' his cronie Pate,
He gat a word in season,
Then, skeigh as kings, they down the gaet
Did gae, to see Meg Mason:
Then did they sprose, till ance, owre hills
O' snaw, the sun is glancin';
Discardin' care and a' his ills,
They're singin' now, and dancin'
Fu' blithe this morn.

Laigh Geordie Gibb, wi' gab sae glib,
Was chieftain o' a clan,
And dreigh did he lead on the spree,
Aside his ain dear Ann.
At sangs and jokes, and saws and toasts,
Most fervently they yoked;
And, victor-like, ilk birkie boasts,
As his wee finger's cocked
To the glass this morn.

239

Rum, whisky, ale, and bread and cheese,
Play'd some an unco pliskin;
Some yont the peat-stack maws did ease,
Some warslet wi' the yeskin:
The maut, lang, lang in Geordie's crap,
Was heterogeneous brewin',
Till, wi' a hurl, on Annie's lap,
He's gullerin' and spewin'
Bedeen this morn.

Auld Maggie, like an ethercap,
Ca's Ann a silly tumphy,
Vow'd, ere she'd ga'e wi' sic a chap,
She'd rather gang wi' grumphy;
Distress'd, affronted, out he slade,
To shun their altercation,
And, yont the sow-house, lanely paid
To Bacchus, an oblation
Profuse this morn.

Mair mensefu' was auld Mungo Gray,
Wha ne'er in's life was fuddled;
For, 'neath the blankets, till 'twas day,
He wi' his spousie cuddled:
Syne up they raise, pat on their claise,
And eke a rantin' ingle,
Neist, wi' guid will, a pint o' ale
Was het, to hail Tam Pringle
And's wife this morn.

Across the loan they march anon,
Shoe-deep amang the snaw;
In hoddin grey baith clad were they,
Fu' clean, and bein, and braw;
He, wi' the cathel and the cap,
To gi'e eild's lade a heize;
She wi' a truncher in her lap,
Weel heap'd wi' bread and cheese
In rowth this morn.

Nae cauldrife welcome Tammie gi'es
To his blithe couthie cronie;
His face, his feelin's, ne'er belies,
Wi' ape-like ceremony;

240

Yet, trugs, I fear, ye gilt grandees,
Sae skill'd in courtly graces,
That friendship, e'en on your levees,
Ne'er beams frae your sleek faces,
Like theirs this morn.

The bicker takes its motion round,
The crack, progressive, rises,
Till up the length o' Lon'on town
Their managin' assizes;
Meantime the carles soar sae high,
'Mang commons, lords, and mayors,
The wives curl o'er, wi' converse dreigh,
Their ain fireside affairs,
Jocose, this morn.

The biggest buffet-stool is set
On the hearth-stane, bedeen,
Wi' rowth o' meat on't, cauld and het,
A' gusty, guid, and clean;
The cow's-tongue, and the fat king's-head,
And beef and bacon ham,
Are a' served up—the wale o' food!
Syne backed wi' a dram
O' usquabae.

But nae sic fare that morn did scent
In Maggie Mather's nose;
That was to her a day o' Lent,
Withouten bread or brose!
Her luckless lord to Sandy Sym
Had made a pair o' trews,
And, gettin' 's hogmonay frae him,
Had fa'n upon the bouse
That waefu' nicht.

The first half-mutchkin, swift, they swill:
Quoth Sym, “We seldom meet;
To pairt without another fill
Wad scarcely be discreet.”
The handy host soon brought it ben;
That drunk, to rise they swither:
“This year we'll never see again,”
Quoth Will; “We'se ha'e anither,
And syne we'll gae.”

241

Oh cursed drink! what crowds ne'er think
O' thy insinuation;
But, sway'd by thee, fell pain they dree,
Frae base intoxication!
Sad truth is this; for, quite outworn
By whisky, ale, and clavers,
Our chiefs appear, at break o' morn,
Twa gaunt and ghastly shavers
This ruefu' day.

Perplex'd and restless Maggie lay,
Wi' grief and anger burnin';
Thocht ilka fit that cam' that way
Wad be her joe returnin';
Till, tired wi' wark and watchin' lorn,
She soundly sank in sleep,
While Will, unfash'd wi' scaith or scorn,
Frae her did vigils keep
Till break o' day.

She wauken'd; Will was absent still,
Though braid day-licht was beamin';
Bang'd on her claise—and out she gaes,
Wailin' the weird o' women:
Soon fand him, in his fav'rite howff,
Half-sleepin', doilt, and drunk:
On's haffits took him sic a gowff
As roused him up like spunk,
In a crack, this morn.

Sym raise to calm the angry spouse,
Wha raged wi' flamin' ire;
Wi' that she claucht his braw new trews,
And heaved them in the fire;
Syne bann'd the host and hostess, fell,
For bein' sae uncivil;
Declared their house the yett o' hell,
Them agents o' the deevil,
Point-blank, this morn.

While Maggie, wi' loquacious tongue,
The dinsome quarrel redd,
Will stachert hame, although richt bung,
And slipped to his bed;

242

Eke Sandy, wi' his singed small clothes
'Neath's oxter, out did saunter,
'Gainst Maggie vendin' scores o' oaths,
Wha play'd him that mishanter
On sic a day.

Our heroine, wi' flyin' flag,
Cam' victor frae the tuilyie,
And neither een nor han's were lag
To spunge Will's spung for spuilyie;
Yet naething fand but five bawbees,
And half-an-ounce o' snuff:
What want the drinker's wife aft drees,
Forbye richt mony a cuff?
Alack-a-day!

Now through the town is heard the soun'
O' fryin'-pans in action,
And puddin's fell send forth a smell
Possess'd o' strong attraction;
Baith young and auld, made blithe and bauld
Wi' meat and drink in plenty,
Devote the day to joy and play,
'Mang rural pleasures dainty
And cheap this day.

CANTO SECOND. NOON.

Ilk kyte weel stech'd wi' gusty gear,
They're canty, young and auld,
Secure till e'en against the fear
O' hunger and o' cauld:
The beggars frae their howffs draw out,
On this day's forage bent,
Resolved at nicht to ha'e a rout
Wi' what kind fortune sent
This special day.

The school weans, in their Sunday claise,
Wi' faces red as roses,
On sheuchs and dubs gleg slides now raise,
While mirth ilk' look discloses:

243

The parish dominie frae them
Draws in his new year gift,
And kings and queens and dukes doth name
Them wha his purse best lift
Wi' clink this day.

Then—when his fab is primely lined,
A bake to ilk he gi'es,
And neist a glass, richt weel refined
Wi' water—them he frees
Frae this day's task, when season'd wi'
A wholesome guid advice;
But, aiblins, ere neist morn he see
His stomach twice or thrice
He'll toom, some say.

Wow! but its easy wark to be
A moralist in clatter!
But backin' words wi' deeds, we see,
Is quite anither matter:
Like Solomon, the dominie
Can finely moralise it;
But, like that royal debauché,
He never can practise it
By nicht or day.

For beef and greens, a bonspiel keen's
To be this day's employment,
'Tween married dads and wanter lads,
Whilk yields them prime enjoyment:
Aff to the loch they're airtin straucht,
Wi' implements o' curlin',
While Bawsie's frothin' wi' her draucht,
As owre the field she's hurlin'
Their stanes this day.

Wi' lichtsome heart, ahint the cart,
In garrulous procession,
They march awa' amang the snaw,
While joy beets ilk expression.
The carles curl owre their feats o' yore,
The lads their lass-diversions;
Or 'mang the knowes, to cut broom-cowes
They lamp, wi' wide excursions,
Fu' brisk this day.

244

Arrived at length by the loch-side,
Frae labour Bawsie's freed,
And Tam the herd, bent on a ride,
Her riggin' mounts wi' speed,
To stable her, wi' nae sma' pride,
Frae hunger, cauld, and danger,
Where she till e'en may safely bide,
And feast at heck and manger,
Fu' snug this day.

To clear awa' the cumbrous snaw,
The shools and brooms they ply,
And in a crack they clean a rack
As pure as midnight sky:
Some mak' the brughs, some scrape the hacks,
Some draw the lazy hogscores;
While some, less keen o' wark than cracks,
Are blithely tellin' splores
This gleesome day.

“Ca' up your stanes,” quoth Ringan Wright,
And let's toast for the ice;
Ye see the sun's maist at his height—
Be quick, if ye be wise.”
Wi' eager e'e they tak' the tee,
And bang them up wi' speed;
But Bauldy Black took the wrang hack,
And ran the hale-rack bread
Aglee this day.

Wi' ardent zeal they fa' to wark;
The wanters tak the lead,
Whilk fires the pride o' carles sae stark,
Wha plan wi' fatal feid.
Ae tee, wi' risps and lazy hogs,
Threw a' the odds now even;
The neist garr'd gutchers cock their lugs,
For they gat in hale seven
At ance this day.

Auld vet'rans now began to crack,
When they'd won on the van;
The snuff-mull's thumb'd around the rack;
Wi' spite the wanters ban:

245

Wi' judgment fell, and voices snell,
They're plannin' and they're cryin';
While some, less skill'd, but as guid will'd,
Their brooms are tightly plyin',
Sincere, this day.

An object new attracts the view;
In dandy dress and air,
Young Geordie Brown, fresh frae the town,
Wha'd spent twa towmonds there:
This samen blade, o' uppish min',
Had there commenced a grocer;
But weel his sire can tell, sinsyne,
Wha was by that a loser,
To his grief, this day.

George buckles on his patent skates,
'Mang school-weans fill'd wi' wonder,
And, fond to show his dext'rous feats,
Scrunts owre the rack like thunder:
A risp he raised 'fore Ringan's stane,
That spoiled it in a twitch,
Wha, sair enraged, ca'd him “a vain
And bubbly bankrupt b---ch,”
And waur this day.

Wi' quakin' knees and burnin' face,
At Ringan's naked skyte,
George did exit wi' little grace,
Wi' silent wraith clean hyte;
Yet took twa turns 'round the loch edge,
To show his detestation;
Syne lowst his buckles, and, in rage
O' hettest indignation,
March'd hame this day.

The blithesome boys, wi' social noise,
Alang the slides are whirrin';
Some on the ae foot nicely poise,
While some, less skill'd, sit currin':
But Will, wha did his balance lose
Upon this slipp'ry pavement,
First clour'd his crown, neist bled his nose;
Which proved a sair bereavement
O' his fun this day.

246

Now swells the lengthen'd noisy shout,
When shots o' skill are play'd;
The bottle's handed weel about,
Their merriment to aid;
The crowd grows greater 'round the tees,
As fast augments their clatter,
Wi' noise confused, like castin' bees,
For ilk mind's fu' o' matter
This joyous day.

But sma's the pleasure mortals share
That is unmix'd wi' pain;
This truth was felt by Bauldy Blair,
A chield baith proud and vain:
His stane was finish'd aff perfyte,
Wi' ivory hand and a';
But Simon, wi' a feidfu' skyte,
Did fairly ding 't in twa
Wi' a skelp this day.

Sax stanes the bachelors had in,
And wad ha'e got the game,
When Saunders Bryson, like the win',
Wi' a' his vengeance came:
He brake a guard, and gat a wick
That gart him rin aglee,
And, polished weel wi' besom's sleek,
He landed on the tee
Fu' nice this day.

At this miraculous display,
That cam' in time o' need,
To wag his hand, auld Tammy Gray
Hitch'd up the rack wi' speed.
“Fair fa' your hand,” quoth Tammy, “man,”
While Saunders up did bicker;
“We'se let them find, wi' little din,
That auld dogs bite aye sicker
By nicht or day.”

By this the sun was wearin' laigh,
And clouds were eastward flyin';
While clam'rous craws, wi' dreary scraigh,
Aff to the woods were hiein';

247

And poacher Hugh, wi' deadly gun,
Withouten dog or valet,
Slips hameward, at the set o' sun,
Wi' a weel fill'd bloody wallet
O' hares this day.

Now cranreugh cauld comes on wi' night,
O' play the weans are weary;
And chitterin' fidge, in cauldrife plight,
Wha erst were warm and cheery.
The game 's cried out: the carles ha'e won,
At whilk they craw fu' crousely;
And a' declare 'twas famous fun;
The losers look mair dousely,
As weel they may:

For, frae their pouch the cash maun clink,
For beef and greens in store;
And likewise rowth o' nappy drink,
To gar them rant and splore.
The horse they yoke, and hameward flock
Wi' red and drippin' noses,
While piles o' snaw begin to fa'
As Sol the short day closes
In robes o' grey.

CANTO THIRD. NIGHT.

O Exercise, thou saul o' health,
And fae o' gouts and cholics,
Thou gi'es mair than Peruvian wealth
To them wha join thy frolics.
Our curlers here can witness bear
In truth o' my assertion,
While, free frae spleen, wi' stomachs keen,
The fruits o' their diversion
They taste this night—

Assembled a' in Nanse M'Nab's,
Our greatest clachan vintner,
Wi' choicest cheer to gust their gabs,
Bielt frae the blasts o' winter:

248

Prime roast and boil'd, o' fragrant smell,
Nane better was nor fatter,
Gars a' the mouth o' Geordie Bell
Wi' keen impatience water
To pree 't this nicht.

There's lang-kail rowth served up in goans,
Potatoes drench'd in gravy,
And buns and baps, and cakes and scones,
Maist meet to dine a navy.
Auld Ringan, in the twa-arm'd chair,
Their chaplain and their preses,
Casts by his bonnet, straikes his hair,
And ane o's Sunday graces
Screeds owre this nicht.

Now knives and forks, like Highland dirks,
Are plied on sirloins noble;
And clean slapdash they kemp and hash
As lang 's their jaws can hobble.
O Fashion! had'st thou here but view'd
Sic garblin', thou, wi' won'er,
Had'st raised thy hands, and bockin spew'd,
And jaundice ta'en, wi' scunner,
At sic a sicht.

Yawp, menseless Pate, wi' stainchless greed,
As stomachy's a Bustard,
At ilka dainty laid-abreed,
Till settled by the mustard;
O' that he took a hearty dose,
Its smeddum naething fearin',
Whilk ran like powther up his nose,
And set the loun a-clearing
O's hawse this nicht.

The hale contents o' 's mouth, like shot,
Flew 'cross the braid aik table,
And did the breast o' Bauldy Scott
Wi' ugsome splairges draible.
Nanse han't him ale his gab to cool,
While 's een stood fu' o' water;
But Bauldy bann'd the blootrin fool,
That did him sae bespatter
This merry nicht.

249

At large to tell a' that befell,
The muse would e'en be hurried,
How Souter Jock did rift and bock,
When wi' a bane maist worried;
Or how, wi' glee, the carles did dree
While tongues and een were able;
Or noisy dogs rave ither's lugs
While feichtin 'neath the table
For banes this nicht.

Blythe Comus tips the Muse a wink,
Says, “Lassie, wilt thou gae
To Simon's barn, and tak' a blink
O' that delightfu' fray?”
Awa' they trip, and get a swatch
O' jollity right funny;
Where, rafflin' Watty Wylie's watch,
Baith lads and lassies mony
Are met this nicht.

To mark the throws in order due,
Sits wanton Jamie Brodie,
A chield wha weel could drink and brew
Guid rum or whisky toddy.
Now rapidly the dice-box reels,
And shilling stakes are clinkin';
But leesome maids and wooer chields
On ither themes are thinkin'
This special nicht.

Dame Fortune, wi' her magic wan',
In some capricious fird
The dice-box touch'd, while in the han'
O' whistlin' Tam the herd.
Three times the rattlin' cubes he shook,
As aft he saxes threw,
While sklentin' envy, frae the neuk
Did look baith sour and blue
Wi' spite this nicht.

“Weel done, lad Tammie! by my feth,”
Cries capernoited Sandy,
“Let me ne'er thrive, but, as sure's death,
Ye are a perfect dandy.”

250

His shinin' horologe Tam e'es,
Wi' joy in ilka feature;
As babs his chain maist to his knees,
He dreams he finds his stature
Advance this nicht.

Now comes the ruler o' the roast,
Black, snuffy fiddler Johnnie,
Wha, frae his green pock, wi' a host,
Draws out his black Cremony;
For elevation, lookin' 'round,
He hints his want to Saunners,
Wha, on twa thack sheaves, mounts him loun,
Triumphant, on the fanners
Fu' high this nicht.

To dance, fu' fast they fit the floor,
Ilk chap his joe selectin';
While some, the lawin' to secure,
The members are inspectin'.
The fiddler's fingers, 'numb'd wi' cauld,
For reel time scarce are waukent,
Whilk gars some louns, ill-bred and bauld,
Cry out, “He's mighty slack on't
On sic a nicht.”

Now, weel-surrounded, in the neuk
The toddy table's set,
And mony gabs impatient yeuk
For stingo pipin' het.
A big-shaird-plate, whase roomy kyte
At ilk time brews a chappin,
Dings mony drouthy louns clean hyte,
And sends them sidlins stappin'
To their beds this nicht.

Fast round and round the liquor's sent
In jugs, and bowls, and glasses;
While blithesome lads, on daffin bent,
Are kittlin' up the lasses.
The auld folk too, wi' air jocose,
Join in the crack and dance;
E'en Simon cries for “Athole brose,”
And through the reel doth prance,
Though bauld, this nicht.

251

The fiddler now, wi' stuff inspired,
Screeds aff the jigs like Jehu;
And mettled chields, wi' gabs untired,
Gar a' the hallan echo:
The comic sang, aside the bowl,
Richt mony a fancy 's touching;
While Andrew swears, “by 's vera soul,
The pleasure 's quite bewitching
This royal nicht.”

A country dance they now propose;
To higher feats they're soarin';
And fast they 're walin' out their joes
Wi' meikle rustic roarin'.
Our skating grocer, Geordie Brown,
The head taks wi' Jean Wilson,
Neist cutty-legged Tam M'Gown
And sklener Nepple Neilson,
Right skeich this nicht:

The rest for places hitch and drive
Wi' meikle noisy bustlin',
Till twenty couple's up belyve,
Weel ranged and free frae justlin':
The minstrel dreads a reekin' buff
In sic a dreich campaign,
Casts aff his coat, and tak's a snuff,
And does his coggie drain
Right glib this nicht.

“The Duke o' Perth” now tak's the fiel',
Wi' hoochin and wi' wheelin';
And blithe they jump, and hooch, and squeel—
Whiles settin' and whiles reelin'.
Skeich Geordie, proud but hapless lad,
Fine modish airs assumin',
Side-cuttin', tumbled wi' a daud
Whare Archie had been toomin'
His crap this nicht.

Ben frae the bowl, wi' liquor'd face,
Comes rattlin' Jamie Morgan,
Swearin' they should na want their bass
Ance he had tuned his organ:

252

Wi' birr he doth the fanners drive;
The fiddle soon he drown'd it;
The dancers tint a' time belyve;
A' order he confounded
In a trice this night.

Some reel and ramp, and lowp and stamp,
And roose their new musician;
While ithers fret and tak' the pet,
And wish him at perdition.
“Sair wark, bot pay,” as auld saws say,
“Soon loses its enjoyment;”
Sae he, for breath and drinkin' baith,
Resigns his new employment
At will this nicht.

As lilts the lark her canty spring
After the thunder blast,
Sae Johnny's fiddle blithe doth ring
When this rude brainge is past.
Some weary shanks, wi' dancin' tired,
Seek rest beside the bicker;
While tongues, wi' whisky half inspired,
Vend shouts o' wit fu' sicker
This rantin' nicht.

The carles and carlines now are gane
In quest o' some repose,
And younkers left, uncowt, alane,
The noisy scene to close.
Some yawp and yowden, blink and gaunt,
Some wrestle wi' the hiccup;
While poet Will, as grave 's a saunt,
Ilk motion queer doth pick up
In the neuk this nicht.

The bowl-man, still wi' noddle fier,
The hindmost browst is brewin';
And loud the voice o' chanticleer
Approachin' day's foreshewin';
When, wi' the shawl o' Jean, his joe,
Upstarted Francie Foster,
Swearin', that “hame they should nae go
Without Bab-at-the-bowster
In style this nicht.”

253

Jig-time the minstrel touches glib;
Frank 'round the floor gaes vap'rin',
Shores first to land at Nelly Gibb,
Sheers aff syne, vogie, cap'rin':
But, kneeling low before his dear,
She answers in a crack,
Then, o' her mouth, as sweet's a pear,
He tak's a luscious smack,
Wi' joy, this nicht.

By coat and gown tails linked close,
The floor fu' fast they're thrangin';
Some shy and blate before their joes,
And some wi' love a' mangin':
Some laugh, and, blushin', bend the knee,
By modesty o'ercome;
While ithers kiss baith frank and free,
And never fash their thumb,
On sic a nicht.

But nane met sic a sair defeat
As plookie-faced Jock Jenkin;
He fain wad measured mou's wi' Kate,
Wha frae his grasp ran linkin';
He follow'd hard, and gat her gripped,
And on a caff-bing flang her;
She flate and flang, and bate and nipped,
And gaed red-wud wi' anger
At him this nicht.

Sime interposed atween the twa,
And redd the roughsome tuilyie,
Else there might been, ere lang, club law
In this wanchancie bruilyie;
Syne, when the lo'esome dance is done,
Whilk mony gabs weel gusted,
They hameward spread, wi' licht o' moon,
In love's embraces twisted,
Right close this nicht.

How bless'd their state, compared wi' them
Wha won within the city,
And wallow, in vile vice's flame,
'Mang harlots, void o' pity!

254

Our landward folk get sic a heize
Frae this day's scaithless fun,
As gars life's wheels, wi' meikle ease,
Maist for a towmond run
Down time's steep brae.

STANZAS ON HEARING A YOUNG LADY PERFORM On the Piano Forte.

Had Orpheus heard thy dulcet lays,
Raised from the mild piano's tone,
He'd torn from off his head the bays,
And drown'd his lute in Helicon.

Or had old Jubal, sire in yore,
Dream'd that, on time's remotest shore,
Thus flourish would his ancient lore,
He'd almost died in ecstacy.

Euphrosyne's sweet daughter fair,
Who canst dispel corrosive care,
May sorrow's cloudy atmosphere
Ne'er dim thy realms of harmony.

Hail to the day the fate of things
Gave thee to sweep along the strings,
Whence ever-pleasing solace rings
To gild woe's gloomy canopy.

Thine is the power to charm the ear,
The care-pervaded soul to cheer,
To wipe from languor's eye the tear,
By thy enchanting minstrelsy.

Ne'er rang in famed Arcadia's clime
Such strains as from thy wires do chime,
To waft the mind, on wing sublime,
Through fancy's florid scenery.

Long be the time before thy hand
Forego to raise such concord grand,
And join the bright angelic band
In the realms of bless'd eternity.

255

Extemporary Lines

ADDRESSED TO SEVERAL YOUNG LADIES, WHO HAD, ON A NEW YEAR MORNING, MADE THE AUTHOR A PRESENT OF DR. WATT'S IMPROVEMENT OF THE HUMAN MIND.

Once more the time-dividing sun
His dreary old routine has run;
And haggard Winter, clad in snow,
O'er Scotia's isle drives dreary slow:
No flow'ret gems the russet fields;
No bower the lonely blackbird shields;
But harsh, the night's cold sleety breeze
Roars through the bending leafless trees—
Or howls, with wild discordant sweep,
Across the surging briny deep.

But him those hardships ne'er assail
Who strays through fortune's trackless vale,
Well guarded by an angel train,
Who steer his course to truest gain—
Even bless'd improvement of the mind,
The truest wealth for man designed.

Hail, guardians! sweet, mild, modest, true,
My dearest wishes turn to you:
May never spleen, nor sullen care,
Nor sallow want, nor dark despair,
Your well-deserved bliss destroy,
But may you taste earth's every joy,
Which flows from wealth, peace, competence—
These only earth's true joys dispense:
And when in death you close your eyes,
And bid farewell to earth and skies,
May such an angel guard be given
To bear you up—aloft to heaven.

An item I had most forgot,
I wish included in your lot—
I mean, you know, a husband true,
Life's rugged path to guard you through,
Which will the case be, I don't doubt it,
Nor shall it be a thing disputed,
But that you all, in proper time,
Will know that marriage is no crime:

256

And you'll think right in judging thus,
Though that I will not here discuss.

But one now means to try the road
Which many a one before has trode;
And may she find it smooth and sweet,
With every requisite replete;
For which I do most humbly pray;
And with this wish shall quit my lay:
Her pattern follow, mind you that,
Which is the wish of William Watt.

Ode to Poetry.

Nymph of fancy, wilt thou deign
To pass the day with me?
On the clover cover'd plain,
Where roams the humming bee;
Or where doth the limpid rill
Smoothly glide adown the hill,
Skirted by the daffodil
And waving willow tree.

Thus, remote from human eye,
Me teach thy heavenly art;
Raise from off thy harp the sigh
Which captivates the heart:
Strike the melting tone of woe;
Wake the wounded lover's glow,
Or grim ire's indignant throe;
Or hatred's poignant smart.

Ever since the dawn of thought
Did dart across my mind,
Still thy magic haunt I sought,
And to thy art inclined;
Still assay'd the tuneful lay;
Drove the fleeting hours away
Through the else unpleasant day;
And thus solace did find.

257

Oft in Milton's deathless strains
Thy various mein I trace;
Or, with Thomson, roam the plains
And wide ethereal space:
Sweet as manna on us drop
The immortal tones of Pope;
Cheerful Campbell, child of Hope,
Eke felt thy kind embrace.

Aid me, when alone I rove
Beneath the sighing wood,
Musing in the fragrant grove
Of stillest solitude;
List'ning to the heav'nly chime
Israel's bards did raise, sublime,
In the days of olden time,
In rapt ecstatic mood.

Hark, kind goddess, to my voice
Of supplicative tone;
Thy enchanting lore's my choice,
Which I admire alone:
Tune to me the dulcet harp,
Which before was harshly sharp;
Then dull pedantry may carp,
And criticism groan.

The Bard's Address to his Flute.

Delight of my youth, I will part from thee never,
While hope's cheering ray glads my life-loving soul;
'Till death's fatal stroke—nought on earth shall us sever,
For oft thou hast freed me from languor's control.
I've raised thy soft flow by the breeze-shaken willow,
Which waken'd the lay of the mavis so mellow;
Or pensively lain, 'mong the primroses yellow,
Beside the clear stream, which did murmuring roll.

O flute, my companion, with thee oft I've wander'd
By Calder's green banks, at the close of the day;
And, lonely, on nature's fair volume I've ponder'd,
Deluding the care-winged moments away:

258

How oft has thy tone banish'd heart-chilling sadness,
And cheer'd my dull mind with the light thrill of gladness!
A rapture unknown to the wild throe of madness,
A joy which alone I derived from thy lay!

When once, at thy strains, fancy's torch I had lighted,
In transport I'd rove by the shady green wood;
Till the drear-wailing owl had proclaim'd me benighted,
O'er the phantom with miser-endearment I'd brood:
Till cold feeble age check the wide-wand'ring rover,
To wake thy soft voice shall my hand ne'er give over—
Even then warm devotion will over thee hover,
For oft thou hast raised her from sorrow's dull mood.

And when ruthless death ends my pleasure and anguish,
And prostrate me lays in the cold silent tomb,
I'll hail those bright realms, and leave mortals to languish,
For earth and its pleasures shall vanish in gloom:
Thou, then, in some muse-wooing hand shalt bewail me,
And—though not so sweet as with me may thy tale be—
The genius of music, melodious, will hail thee,
And flowers amaranthine around thee shall bloom.

The Life of the Loreless Bard.

“Full many a gem, of purest hue serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.”
—Gray.

If thou hast seen the seaman brave
O'ercome the harshly swelling wave,
And gain the highly wished for shore,
Safe from the boiling tempest's roar;
If thou hast seen the hero wield
His arm upon the battle's field,
And, by fell death subdued, his foe,
Besmear'd with gore, laid prostrate low;
If thou hast been in Egypt's clime,
And seen the piles which baffle time,—

259

Then thou hast seen what trials hard
Oppose the humble loreless bard,
Exposed to want, that rigid spright,
Whose look the bravest soul would blight;
Sequester'd in the cell of toil,
Where intermission ne'er doth smile;
Debarr'd from sage instruction's school,
His thoughts adjusted by no rule:
If sing he must, he's taught by nature,
Devoid of learning's vivid feature.

Born in old Scotland's rugged isle
Was he, whose life we sing the while;
From early youth was taught to sigh
'Neath the harsh hand of poverty;
Felt cold neglect's heart-breaking stroke,
Yet, heaven-inspired, still braved the shock.
When winter, with relentless power,
Rain, hail, or snow, did blust'ring shower,
No warm inviting home had he
Ofttimes—to fire his soul with glee:
Much did the hapless youth endure,
Whilst thus he lived ignobly poor.

Half-learn'd to read the Code divine,
He off was sent to tend the kine;
This—more propitious situation
From dread of want—gave relaxation;
Hope's magic fancy brought to view
Thoughts that days brighter would ensue;
Such mental visions drove away
Full many a long and lonely day.
Although unknown to classic ground,
He ne'er could brook the vulgar sound,
But rather, sole, beside the wood,
Would on sweet nature's features brood;
And, fancy aided, pass the time,
To chaunt her praise in rugged rhyme:
The light'ning's flash, the thunder's roll,
To pitch sublime did raise his soul;
The tempest's sweep he'd fondly eye
In all the flight of ecstacy;
And sweetly on his tuneful ear
Did fall the lark's song, warbled clear:

260

He loved to haunt the lonely dell
Where fairies wont in yore to dwell;
To muse beside the streamlet dern,
'Mong loosely waving broom and fern;
To list the sound of the cascade,
By zephyr wafted down the glade;
Or lie, charm'd by the wood-band's sound,
Upon the genii-haunted mound.
In hist'ry's page, he would explore
Old Scotland's fields, deep bathed in gore,
When Wallace swang the dire morglay,
And through deep columns cut his way;
When Bruce did England's bondage spurn
On the red field of Bannockburn:
Themes such as these to him were dear,
And wrang the patriotic tear—
Nor could his breast the sigh withhold,
Reviewing val'rous deeds of old;
He judged the cause of injured worth
The most defensible on earth;
Misfortune's hapless lot he mourn'd,
Power's high contemptuous sneer he scorn'd—
And still he shudder'd, still he sigh'd,
To see the haughty gait of pride—
And still he eyed, with deep vexation,
The unfeeling tyrants of creation.

Thus many an hour and many a day,
In solitude, were pass'd away,
Upon the purple-blossom'd heath,
Or the green shady wood beneath,
Close tracing, through the sacred page,
The bard who felt despotic rage;
But who, ere long, on Judah's throne,
Establish'd sure, effulgent shone;
Who spread the praise of God afar,
In song immortal as in war:
His chief delight to con and scan
The most pathetic lays of man.
Thus, rurally, he spent the while,
Till years brought round mechanic toil,
When he did change the scene in life—
The verdant fields, of beauties rife,

261

For the dull shop's unwholesome air,
Whence rings the sound of endless care.

O well-a-day! his freedom's fled,
A drear routine his life is led,
Ungracious to the poet's mind—
From nature's visage sweet confined,
Doom'd there to dwell from her apart,
And ply the tiresome tool of art;
Yet, even here, the whole day long,
His fancy treads the fields of song;
And much he ponders on, and reads
Of art, or nature's grandest deeds;
Nor slips occasion, place, or time,
To spin the golden thread of rhyme:
As war or love suggests the theme,
He treats the muse aye with esteem.
He thinks, perchance, the day may come
His lays may strike the ear of some
Who yet may lend the patron's hand,
And make him known throughout the land;
This thought flows from no venal views,
But for the honour of the muse,
For still he vows he'll ne'er forego
To follow her or high or low.

Thus have we sketch'd his early days,
To him a wild ungracious maze;
Yet, hopeful of what may ensue,
He casts an antecedent view,
Haply, his coming lot to eye
In thy blank map—futurity:
Yet doth his search unfruitful find,
He only knows what lies behind,
Where time, the tyrant, sweeps the ground,
And swift apace all's ruin found.
So well doth time and fate agree,
They've brought his age to twenty-three;
What adverse or propitious follows,
Est nullus sed scit Deus solus.

262

The Tinkler's Wedding.

“Think not, ye rich, all joy and mirth
Attend the haunts of gentle birth.”

By Cheviot hills, ae morn in May,
Upon the border bent,
The wand'rin' gang o' Habbie Hay
Did pitch their gipsy tent,
To celebrate the nuptial knot
'Tween glaikit Sall M'Kechan
And—her fifth husband—Norman Scott,
A caird frae Ecclefechan:
Nae saunt was he.

The cuddies, frae their toil set free,
Amang the knowes are browsin';
And wives, to grace the social spree,
Their duddie bairns sit lousin':
Some do them deck wi' washen toys
O' clean garbs vauntin' frisky,
While ithers show that a' their joys
Concentre in the whisky,
Alane, this day.

Nae solemn consecrated priest
To tie the bands need they,
But only cash to raise a feast,
And rowth o' usquebae;
For whilk they had, for weeks before,
The tin and horn been whangin',
To put some smeddum in the splore,
And set their gabs a-gangin'
Loquaciously.

Unfash'd wi' only pridfu' thought
O' grandeur, or sic like,
They nestle in an auld sheep bught,
A wathers' spauls to pyke:
There, wet or dry, beneath the sky,
Unscreen'd by thack or kebbres,
They joyous join the wark divine
Wi' bacchanalian labours,
Most fervently.

263

To forage fagots for the fire
The younkers wide are roamin',
And mirth doth ilka breast inspire,
While cans o' drink are foamin':
Mair heart-felt joy they feel, I ween,
In this sequester'd station,
Than gladdens either king or queen,
Even on their coronation
Or grand levee.

Withouten grace or gracefu' air,
Slapdash, they're gormandising
On kail and beef, the wale o' ware,
Till kytes like tuns are rising.
Blin' gangrel Geordie, in the neuk,
His fiddle sets a bummin',
While's duddie guide, wi' airy leuk,
On's tambourine stan's drummin',
Right skeigh, this day.

When wames were fill'd, and wizens wat,
To dance some out did sally,
While ithers, fonder o' the maut,
Did wi' their doxies dally.
Auld Habbie, wha the rights o' age
Aye manfully defended,
First took the green wi' toothless Madge,
While at the rump he vended
Great rowts this day.

Stern Norman, wi' his kittle joe,
Neist claim'd the minstrel's aid;
Fu' richtly he his spauls did show,
And starkly flang and strade;
But he in a cow's cusslock slade,
And on his hurdies grundit,
Whereat sic laughin' through them gaed,
That he was maist affronted
On's marriage day.

Dan drew out Doll, a damsel din,
And dour as ony badger;
Her mither was o' gipsy kin,
Her father was a cadger;

264

He mockin' roost her lily skin,
But soon had cause to rue it,
For he amaist was driven blin',
She gied him sic a fluet
I' the face this day.

Thae twa had raised a fearfu' feud
Wi' blows and altercation,
For Dan did swear, in wrath right rude,
He'd make retaliation;
But Dennis Drew, a bully loun,
To quell this collieshangie,
Cam' owre the green, drew near the soun',
And said, “Wha's this amang ye
Sae loud the day?”

Dan had a tremblin' heart, nae doubt,
At this interrogation,
For sair he fear'd he'd get a clout,
Nae envied dispensation;
For Dennis was a rackle wight,
As some in Scotland knew—
He'd purses ta'en 'neath cloud o' night,
And lives, they said, nae few,
Wha kent his tricks.

The minstrel—fear'd that ill wad fare
His guide, himsel', and fiddle—
Struck up “the merry lads o' Ayr”
As fast as he could driddle:
A' took the hint, sae too they set,
Withouten hesitation,
And danced until their hides they het,
And cursed the wild stagnation
O' their fun this day.

Hodge Haig, the essence o' his clan,
Sat close beside the jorum,
For night and day the liquor can
Was his sanctum-sanctorum.
His wife he did baith bruise and ban
For drinkin' o't before him,
Though on his shanks he scarce could stan':
A hater o' decorum,
Maist fell, was he.

265

But he ca'd Neps a whore and thief,
Whilk she in wrath resented,
And fix'd her talons in his beef,
And gart the blade repent it.
In grips they tumbled on a bairn,
And maist the same had smoor'd,
Whase mither, wi' a sowth'rin' airn,
Their crowns and curpons clour'd
Right sair that day.

The time flew bye wi' siclike pranks,
Till laigh the sun was glidin',
And the lang shadows o' their shanks
Far owre the fields were stridin';
And Geordie was sae daised wi' drink
His lyre he cou'dna tune,
To gar the gossips blithe play jink,
Though he'd been crown'd at Scone
For the deed that day.

To remedy this sad event
Mair close they hug the bicker,
Till noddles to their rest are sent
By the mislushious liquor.
Stout Norman touttit aff his quaff,
To set them an example,
Till he, like ony sack o' draff,
Did lig, a waefu' sample
To the bride that night.

Twa carlines, wha lang envy had
For a deserter billie,
On ithers' faces flew like mad,
And scarted right ill-willy.
The blade, to end the feidfu' strife,
Gat up, the trulls to sever,
For whilk he maist had lost his life,
As thanks for his behaviour
To the sluts that night.

'Twad be a tale o' nae short fud,
Ilk action to narrate;
How cairds and kimmers drank like wud,
And fought wi' furious hate;

266

Or paint the mixty-maxty scene,
While heads and thraws they lay,
Or tell how Sall a maid might been
For Norman, when neist day
She raise fu' sour.

The Hawk.

The eve was clear, the air was still,
And, far beyond the dark-blue hill,
The sun nigh closed the day;
After the irksome hours of toil
I wander'd out, to pass the while,
Across the fields to stray.

While gazing on the ample sky
A towering hawk I did espy
Poised o'er the verdant plain,
In quest to find his hapless prey;
But, after many a sharp essay,
All fruitless proved and vain.

Next, to a furzy copse he hied,
Where sweetly, in the even-tide,
A thrush did trill her lay;
Sweet was her strain as happy love,
Fix'd, never, never to remove
Till life's last parting day.

He long her mansion hover'd o'er,
And every op'ning did explore,
With eager wistful eye:
To raise her, down he quick did dart,
But from the gorse she would not start,
Nor from her seat would fly.

She, startled, quit her dulcet song,
But sat the prickly shrubs among,
His ruthless claws to shun;
When thus he saw his efforts vain,
He homeward skimm'd along the plain,
Among the thick mist dun.

267

“Thou devil's emblem,” then said I,
“Quick to thy bloody dwelling hie,
To pine in hunger all night long—
Now safe's the mellow queen of song:
And sing, dear bird! I love the note
Pour'd from thy various warbling throat;
For dear to me's thy cheering lay,
At rising morn or closing day;
And may'st thou still escape the snares
Laid, thee to catch all unawares.”

Fable: THE REDBREAST AND LINNET.

Upon an evening calm and fair,
A redbreast, unperplex'd with care,
Sat on a branching old elm tree,
Chanting his lay with matchless glee:
He found his voice in famous tune,
And emulously thought that soon
He'd rival either merle or thrush,
Who sang in brake or birken bush.
But, while in zenith of his pride,
A falcon up the glen did glide,
Whom, when poor robin saw, woe's me!
He darted from his fav'rite tree
Into a close beech-hedge, where sat
A linnet, little gi'en to chat,
Who thus, with scornful envious leer,
Did little trembling robin jeer:—

“Friend, what means this abrupt transition?
Your plight doth fill me with suspicion!
Are foes abroad?”—Quoth Robin, “Hush!
A falcon hovers o'er the bush!
'Tis strange that Jove, so wondrous wise,
Should place such tyrants in the skies!
A person scarce can show his face,
For death appears in every place:
I swear—'tis cruel and unjust
Thus to permit despotic lust:
But words are vain; what must be must!”

268

Sir Linty, through a crevice peeping,
Says, “Friend, refrain your peevish cheeping—
The foe is gone—we're free from harm!”
Says Robin, “Thanks! faith, there's a worm!”
He swoop'd the victim in a trice,
And gulp'd him, saying, “eigh! that's nice!
May every wight, by land and sea,
As sure of supper be as me!”

The Linnet smartly then rejoin'd—
“Sir, you possess a sophist's mind!
Should Jove but hearken to your prayer,
How nobly would that falcon fare;
Nor would the deed more cruel be
Than what's transacted now by thee.”

Hence, every peevish clown may see
The conduct how unholy,
Of charging Providence divine
With deeds unjust, or folly:
And, hence, a precept proffer'd is
To each reforming elf—
Ne'er to reform a government
Till he reform himself.

ON HEARING A Lark Singing after Sunset.

Hail! minstrel sweet, whose dulcet lay
Escorts the fleeting hours away,
As here, at dusky eve, I stray
Across the glade,
Or muse beneath the sloe-thorn grey,
O' fragrant shade!

Meet emblem of the hapless bard,
Who feels the heedless world's reward,
From fame and profit oft debarr'd,
And jeer'd oft-times;
And oft, like thee, he sings unheard
His sweetest rhymes.

269

Clear is thy throat at early morn,
When rising o'er the dew-wet corn,
And, heaven-directed, upward borne,
To greet the sun;
But clearer far, while I muse, lorn—
All mortals shun.

Sing on, sweet warbler of the wild,
I love thy cadence, melting, mild;
To me thou'rt music's dearest child,
By grove or moor;
Oh may thy nestlings ne'er be spoil'd,
But live secure!

Thou'rt solace to the shepherd gay,
Who lonely spends the summer day
Beside the streamlet's murm'ring play,
Or verdant mound,
While frisking lambs, with feigned fray,
Around him bound.

And oft to me thou dear hast been,
When gall'd by wild poetic spleen,
Or stung by sallow-visaged teen,
In solitude,
While straying o'er the bent-field green,
In pensive mood.

Good night, sweet bird! thy lay is o'er;
And, should I never hear thee more,
Oft, till I cross time's farthest shore,
I'll mind thy song,
Which can arouse the muse's lore,
Swift, smooth, and strong.

The Lapdog Cured.

“Hunger's guid kitchen.”
—Scotch Proverb.

The sweetest, fairest, country belle
Was Miss Sophini Bagatelle,

270

Whose feelings were more truly tender
Than any of her two-faced gender,
Which kept her in perpetual trouble,
For things as trifling as a bubble;
But nought her spirits so did clog,
As what befell her dear Lapdog.

This self-same pest, by name called Tiny,
Imported was from Cochin China,
As story went—but judges swore
The elf was bred in Labradore,
While others proved, by demonstration,
Its lineage was of our own nation.
But, leaving cavils to each critic,
Poor harmless pamper'd Tiny fell sick,
For which event Miss did so pine,
Some thought her threaten'd with decline;
So when Mamma heard this suspicion,
She call'd the village sage physician,
Who, being the family's true health warden,
Charged Miss to walk oft in the garden;
As nought could better banish sorrow
Than roaming in the fields of Flora.

One morn, as Miss, for recreation,
Began the day's perambulation,
With Tiny's case still fresh in mind,
She thus address'd her gard'ner hind—
A man who, though in humble station,
Knew more than nursing a carnation.

“O John, my Tiny now hath quite
Lost every spark of appetite;
For, though I've tried him o'er and o'er
With all that's nice within our door,
He eyes all with as little care
As he could live on common air:
And while I see him daily languish,
My heart is like to break with anguish!
And now, John, think you ought could be
Applied to set poor Tiny free
From trouble? I'd reward the wight
With twenty guineas, when my sight

271

Was bless'd in seeing Tiny eat
His wonted quantity of meat!”

While leaning foreward o'er his spade,
John fondly heard the offer made,
And thought within himself meanwhile,
He'd gain the sum with little toil.
Thrice o'er his face his hand he drew,
Then rubbed well his sweaty brow,
And seem'd as if in study lost
On what would take both skill and cost;
So, having hemm'd! his voice to clear,
He wheedled thus in Misses' ear:—

“You offer well, ma'am; yet, since I
Can boast but small proficiency
In physic, you, perchance may be
Averse to trust his cure with me;
Else would I try what skill I have
Your little fav'rite's life to save.”

“Good John,” cried Miss, “O try your best
To help the creature so oppress'd,
And if good fate should you succeed,
You shall receive the proffer'd meed!”

At close of day, when toil was o'er,
John homeward pamper'd Tiny bore,
Well knowing, if the squeamish elf
Felt hunger as oft as himself,
No surfeit qualms had e'er assail'd him,
Nor frisky health had ever fail'd him.
Close-shut within a cellar dark,
This demi-god was left to bark
And whine; nor did John ope the prison
Till thrice the sun had set and risen.
By this time hunger bit so keen,
That carrion vile a feast had been
To suff'ring convalescent Tiny,
Who now, with fasting, had grown spleeny.

Thrice every day Miss call'd on John,
Inquiring how the cure went on—
So, as the wily gard'ner knew,
Hunger had tamed the pining shrew,
He offer'd Miss an interview

272

With the lank patient, who, that morn,
Was from his sable cloister borne,
In purpose that Miss should not see
John's well-meant stern austerity.

Tine was produced: says John, “Now, madam,
But three rounds of the sun I've had 'im,
And, without aid of cordial-drinks,
He's cured; and, sharp as any lynx,
You see he scents in quest of meat.
Cries Miss, “John, let me see him eat!”
John, from a pantry, forthwith drew
A mess that made Miss puke to view:
Sour broth, cold porridge, and hens' drummock,
That would have tried a stout sow's stomach.
Tine, heedless of the rank stale savour,
Deem'd it of most delicious flavour;
And lick'd and breath'd, and lick'd again,
Till he the whole contents did drain:
While Miss, o'erwhelm'd with wonder, stands,
With eyes a-stare and lifted hands,
Blessing the fate, so kind, so good,
That sent John to her servitude:
Then out her silken purse she drew,
To give the trusty hind his due,
And would have paid the proffer'd sum
Most cheerfully;—but John says, “Um!
'Tis far too much, ma'am—but one guinea
I charge for thus recov'ring Tiny;
Since little did the med'cine cost:
I've not the sting of conscience lost.
If the disease return again
To give the creature further pain—
Than three short days, let him no longer
Remain oppress'd: the cure is—hunger!”

Thus Tine was cured, and John rewarded,
And Miss against consumption guarded.

273

Emigration.

Hail, Liberty! thou nymph divine,
Whose rays in every breast do shine,
And gild the realms of hope:
Glad as Aurora's smile thy look,
Which ne'er the human mind forsook,
Though it in gloom did grope:
Thou shoot, from soundest reason sprung,
Be thou my theme the while;
Though I thy fame but rude have sung,
I yet may catch thy smile.
My lone harp, of tone sharp,
May touch the feeling soul,
While wandering, and pondering
On tyrant power's control.

Sweet maid, I see thee wandering wide,
From clear Euphrates' flowery side,
With Israel's faithful sire;
O'er distant Canaan's arid plains,
Scarce visited by roving swains,
Whose breasts thy features fire.
Or let me trace thy hallow'd feet
Through bless'd Arabia's clime,
Where bondage ne'er, with motion fleet,
Waved round her coasts sublime.
Whence sighing and crying
From anguish never flow,
Where slavery and knavery
Meet law's terrific blow.

For ever happy was the day
When brave Columbus sped his way
Across the wide Atlantic's roar,
Where Europe's sons ne'er went before.
Much was his peril, much his toil;
And after all his great turmoil,
He spied at last the land veer nigh,
Where Freedom's flag did fan the sky.
How did his manly bosom swell
To find the realm where peace might dwell!

274

His feelings language can't express,
So far they soared past common bless.
But joy's mild sky is oft o'ercast
By woe's opaque tempestuous blast,
And blithe prosperity's clear noon
Is dimm'd by adverse fortune soon;
Their case was this, who held that land,
From time unknown, by Heaven's command.

When volleying Etna, thundering, showers
Her sulph'rous lava round,
Sicilians, summon all your powers,
And fly her roar profound.

When ocean heaves her surge to heaven,
And wrecking vessels reel,
Sailors, let every aid be given
To brave the awful peal.

Britons, if lawless usurpation
Have robb'd the rights of man,
Leave, quickly leave, your ruined nation,
And other regions scan.

Britain, alas! to Britons dear,
Must lose her free-born sons;
These leave the land they much revere;
Each, base oppression shuns.

Grieved have I seen their parting look
Cast on their native shore,
Nor, tearless, could the prospect brook
By philosophic lore.

They climb the mast to take the last
Farewell of Scotia's isle,
Till down it pass'd, with motion fast,
Beneath green ocean's smile.

Whoe'er yet left his native land,
Obeying fate's control,
But, throbbing, viewed the fleeting strand
Back from his vision roll?

275

Yet hope, aroused from black despair,
On future pleasure broods,
And in Columbia's healthful air
Seeks shelter in her woods.

“O fate, me place,” the stranger cries,
“Beside Ontario's Lake,
Where Niagara's thunders rise,
And Scotia I'll forsake.

“Like Noah, on Ararat's height,
Saved from the wreck of old,
I'd bless the guardian of my fate,
When freedom I behold:

“Where I may sing of streams unsung,
Where poesy ne'er trod,
Where ne'er the Muse's harp had rung,
Where slavery ne'er abode:

“Where Labour still bestows her hire,
Where want appals no more,
And where no orphan, dame, nor Sire,
Needs beg from door to door.”

Such thoughts as these pass through his mind,
Thoughts truly worthy man;
He leaves the realms of woe behind
And draws his future plan.

He chides his fear, that long deterr'd
His oft form'd resolution,
And blushes he'd so long preferr'd
Our sapped Constitution:

No more to Europe's thrall a sport,
For thousands sail from every port,
And gaily o'er the ocean glide,
Triumphant, from want's ebbing tide,
While shouting, as they leave the shore,
“To thee we shall return no more.”
Hail, Liberty! thy sons protect,
Their floating vehicles direct,
And bear them to their destined port,
America, that bless'd resort!

276

STANZAS COMPOSED ON READING THE ACCOUNT OF THE Execution of Marshal Ney.

Why floats the sigh of deepest woe
Through Paris streets—oh! tell me why?
From every faltering tongue doth flow,
“To-morrow dies brave Marshal Ney!”

Ill-fated chief! is this the boon
That destiny now gives to thee?
Black death! at manhood's glorious noon,
Who strovest to set thy nation free.

Yes, tyrant power thy fate proclaims;
To-morrow seals thy hapless lot;
But Freedom's sons shall mark their names
Who did condemn thee to be shot!

Methinks, in the tribunal's hall,
I see thee dauntless hear thy doom,
And, hopeless, by their villain thrall,
Consign'd to the ignoble tomb.

Yet from futurity's dark land
These accents fall upon my ear,
Sung by bright Freedom's angel band,
While trickling drops grief's deepest tear:—

“Solemn, let us nightly tread
Round the ashes of the dead:
By the sable yew and tomb
'Neath the ebon cypress gloom,
We will wail, till rising day
Chase night's spectres all away:
Hither let no stranger come
Till the beat of morning drum:
Weep we will, with sorrow deep,
For him who underneath doth sleep.
Oft he heard the cannon's rattle
In the hard contested battle;
Oft he for his country's weal
Felt the foe's indignant steel;
And still did act the patriot's part,
For Freedom flamed within his heart.

277

Brave he fought, nor fear'd to die;
Ever was the last to fly;
When the combat fierce began,
He was seen upon the van;
When the trumpet rang defeat,
In the rear he did retreat;
And that day to the flag was true,
When war eternised Waterloo.”

Thus, long before the death-bell rang
To wake his grief-clad mourners all,
The dulcet choir his ditty sang
In sorrow's black escutcheon'd hall.

Now thousands, mourning, crowd the streets,
And for their hapless leader sigh;
Each gen'rous soul his fellow greets,
While tears responsive fill each eye.

Alone, undaunted, he appear'd,
Nor symptom show'd of inward woe,
Save for the cause so much revered,
Which oft raised feeling's deepest throe;

And for his family's dreaded fate,
Protectorless amidst the world,
Where haply none durst mind their state—
Thus might they be to ruin hurled.

See! now the fatal hour is come;
He stands before the ruthless band:
Hark! there's the signal of the drum—
And all in mute suspense doth stand.

The hero, with majestic mien,
Points to his heart; says, “Soldiers, fire!”
Obey'd—he drops upon the green,
And doth without a sigh expire!

He's gone!—but yet his injured sprite
Stalks unrevenged throughout the land;
His blood yet on their heads shall light,
And Freedom's flag wave direly grand!

278

Epistle to J. R.

Fair fa' the music o' your whistle,
Sae saftly blawn in yon epistle!
O'erjoy'd, I see, 'round Scotland's thristle
Her bards combine
The wreath o' fame, sae firm, to twissle,
Wi' art divine.

What priest, wi' noddle consecrated,
The case mair clearly could ha'e stated,
Or yet mair cogently debated
Ilk clause, than you?
I'm rede, if I be not crack-pated,
There are but few.

O wad the fornicator loun
But swill your halesome potion down!
It wad mair pleasure, late and soon,
Gi'e to his mind,
Than ony way beneath the moon
That he will find.

But, since he's o' the rhyming clan,
Wha seldom wisdom's counsels scan,
I fear he winna tak' the plan
Laid out by reason,
Till he by want be forced to ban,
When out o' season.

The rhymin' speelers o' Parnassus
Are aft wud rakes amang the lasses,
Whether they're drill'd in college classes,
'Neath logic sly,
Or school'd amang the bent and masses,
Like you or I.

Hail, Poetry! thou art divine,
I kneel, I bow before thy shrine;
O would the verdant laurel twine
About my bonnet!
Nae higher aim I'd ha'e than shine
In Scottish sonnet.

279

The mystic magic o' the art
To me did pleasure aye impart,
Since I could wauchle at a cart,
Or pu' a tether;
E'en when secluded far apart
'Mang haggs and heather.

Thus, frae society exiled,
Far in the dreary moorland wild,
The langest day I've aft beguiled
Wi' Ramsay's lays,
Wha sang the shepherd's manners mild,
In former days:

Or when I conn'd the witty turns
O' far-famed, shrewd, immortal Burns—
Chields wha ha'e planted round their urns
The laurel tree:
What feeling heart their fate but mourns
Wi' tearfu' e'e?

Hech! how my breast distends wi' pride,
To think that mossy Calder's side
Can boast o' bards wha needna hide
Their warks frae ony;
Then let us blateness lay aside,
Blithe-hearted cronie!

Lang may the muse frequent your noddle,
Lang may your purse contain a bodle,
Lang may you owre the green fields toddle,
In store o' health,
And lead a life o' virtuous model,
Mair worth than wealth.

To Louisa B.

Louisa, veil that face so fair—
That face is Cupid's fatal snare,
Strange as the Gordian knot!
Wake not the glow of hopeless love,
Which only can despair promove,
And seal my hapless lot!

280

Hospitality:

AN EVENING SCENE.

Welcome, wand'rer! old and poor,
Here to pass the night secure;
Cold the wind, and thick the rain,
Drive across the darksome plain;
Eastward has the raven fled
To the wood, his airy bed;
And the darkness-loving owl
From the rifted rock doth howl:
See, the rosy sun is set,
Feel, the night is cold and wet:
Walk in, stranger, to our cot,
And the ferry try thou not.
Hark! the waves tumultuous roar
'Gainst the stubborn, rocky shore:
Through the sable shroud of night
Not a star can give thee light,
Neither can the boatman's wherry
Ride so rudely rough a ferry.
Shouldst thou propose to take the tide,
In rage he'll from his door thee chide;
So stay, old stranger, for thy weal,
Thou'lt share our fire, our bed, our meal,
And, when the radiant sun doth rise,
To gild again the ample skies,
Refresh'd, thou'lt cheerful speed thy way,
Throughout the soon returning day.

281

SONGS.

THE EMIGRANT'S LAMENT.

[_]

AIR,—“The Braes o' Balquidder.”

Lovely Scotia, my home,
'Twas with sorrow I left thee,
While through want I did roam,
When of joy she bereft me.
I was once blithe and gay
On the green banks of Yarrow,
Now I sigh night and day
By the Falls of Ni'gara.

As all lonely I toil
In the dull frowning wildwood,
Fancy wanders, the while,
'Midst the haunts of my childhood;
With my Mary I rove
On the sweet braes of Yarrow;
While I hew the dark grove
By the Falls of Ni'gara.

Here, the green robe of spring
Decks the glens and the mountains,
And the maids blithely sing
By the wood-shaded fountains;
But more pleasure I found
On the calm banks of Yarrow,
Than can dwell near the sound
Of the Falls of Ni'gara.

Here, the sun's radiant blaze,
On the mead, beams as brightly—
Here, the moon's yellow rays,
On the lake, dance as lightly—
Here, the winds breathe as mild
As they e'er fann'd on Yarrow—
Yet to me all seems wild
By the falls of Ni'gara.

Oh! ye soft ties of love,
Why of Mary remind me?

282

From my bosom remove
The dear maid left behind me!
Else, I live all in vain
When I'm far, far from Yarrow,
Torn by love's burning pain
By the Falls of Ni'gara.

THE LAST VIEW OF ERIN.

[_]

AIR,—“The sprig of Shillelah.”

Young Barny look'd sad, as he stood on the deck
Of the vessel that bounded away for Quebec,
Far, far from the land of the shamrock so green:
The sigh heaved his breast, and the tear dimm'd his eye,
While his native land melted 'twixt ocean and sky;
Yet he sprang up the shrouds for the last parting view
Of sweet Erin's green hills, now by distance turn'd blue,
The land of the shamrock so yellow and green.

Tears sprinkled his cheeks, and grief palsied his tongue,
As aloft to the breeze-sighing cordage he clung,
Till his dear native land could no longer be seen.
“O my country,” he falter'd, “an endless farewell,
For whose freedom my forefathers both fought and fell:
Ah! my sad bosom thrills to its innermost core,
Thus to leave thee for dark Niagara's wild roar,
Afar from thy harp and thy shamrock so green.

“But little I thought, while life's morn shone so fair,
By Killarney's pure lake, when, a stranger to care,
I gather'd the shamrock so yellow and green,
That the ties of affection, so form'd to enchant,
Should be ruthlessly torn by the chill hand of want,
Which exiles me from all I admire and adore,
The land of my birth, and my dear Ellenore,
Who wails where the shamrock blooms yellow and green.

“Dear mate of my childhood, companion in youth,
Whose eye beams with love, and whose heartglows with truth,
I have left thee to roam 'mong the shamrock so green;
But should fate e'er relent, who hath press'd me so hard,
And bless my endeavours with plenty's reward;
With rapture I'd waft, from our dear native shore,
The charm of my life, my young, sweet Ellenore,
No longer to mourn 'mong the shamrock so green.”

283

THE AFRICAN TRAVELLERS.

[_]

AIR,—“The heaving of the lead.”

Embark'd to leave our native isle,
And trace the Niger's wand'rings wide;
Though tears bedew'd our cheeks the while,
Oh don't for cowards e'er us chide!
Sweet love and friendship's dearest ties
We burst, to roam 'neath Afric's skies,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home;
Exposed to prowling beasts of prey,
And savage man, more dire than they,
Far, far from home.

We traversed countless deserts vast,
Scaled mountains, threaded forests dire,
Drench'd 'neath the stern tornado's blast,
Or scorch'd by Sol's fierce fluid fire;
From savage tribes we peril ran,
That scarce deserved the name of man,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home:
Angelic hope still on did glide,
Adown the Niger's gleaming tide,
Far, far from home.

But when we reach'd the boist'rous coast,
Where the Atlantic's billows roar,
Our dangers all in joy were lost,
We deem'd us safe on Britain's shore.
We've broke the long mysterious spell,
Which hundreds sought, and seeking, fell,
Far, far from home,
Far, far from home.
Now, free from peril, toil, and pain,
Our fam'lies' smiles we hail again,
Safe, safe at home.

Richard and John Landers.

284

WAE DAYS FOR ANE AND A'.

[_]

AIR,—“There's nae luck about the house.”

[_]

This Song was written for, and sung at a Benefit Concert, in behalf of the unemployed weavers of ---, during a great stagnation in trade.

Now simmer's e'e blinks owre the lea,
An' cleads the fields in green,
And blithesome lambs frisk roun' their dams,
Whilk charms the shepherd's een.
The mavis cheers the greenwood shaw,
The lav'rock cheers the hill,
But noucht can drive our cares awa',
As lang's the looms stan' still.
For they're wae days for ane and a',
It ilka joy doth spill,
There's noucht can drive our cares awa',
As lang's the looms stan' still.

Auld Britain lang, in foreign wars,
Has warsled teugh an' dour,
And, spite o' a' their clouts and scars,
Has nobly stood the stour;
But had she tint the fertile source,
That aye her pouch did fill,
A dyvour she had been, of course,
Had a' our looms stood still.
For they're wae days, &c.

The laird comes round to seek his rent,
The tenant noucht can gie;
The factor comes to lift the stent,
But where's the parson's fee?
The vintner looks baith dowff and blae,
And rarely sells a gill—
Now, what's the cause o' a' this wae,
But, that our looms stan' still?
For they're wae days, &c.

Pure gratitude, wi' wish sincere,
Craves liberty to speak,
To thank our benefactors here,
Wi' warm, half-blushin' cheek.
Should trade e'er gi'e a cheerin' blink,
We then, in reamin' yill,
Cap-aff, your healths will often drink,
When ne'er a loom stan's still.

285

For they're braw days for ane and a',
It gars our bosoms thrill,
When nane o' Scotlan's bairns can shaw
A loom that's stan'in' still.

TO THE MEMORY OF C. J. FOX.

[_]

AIR,—“Nong tong paw.”

Why heaves Britannia that deep sigh,
And pensive droops her laurell'd head?
Why dims the tear that brilliant eye,
Whose smile could joy o'er Europe shed?
Cries Liberty, “She's reason just,
For Fox now moulders in the dust;
And who, like him, can wield the plan
Which guards the sacred rights of man?”

His was the truly Roman soul,
For virtue, reason, and for wit,
Which burst the chains of base control,
Wreathed round our necks by subtle Pitt.
From Africa, that land woe,
He caused the song of joy to flow,
And waved around her plunder'd coast
The sword of freedom, reason's boast.

Then why indulge in hopeless grief,
Or cloud thy brow with ceaseless gloom,
When forward stand, for thy relief,
Undaunted Brougham, Grey, and Hume?
With many more of noted name,
Who grace the golden roll of fame,
And twine the wreath around his urn,
To bloom till time's remotest bourn.

Peace to the mighty patriot's shade!
The friend of freedom and of man!
Who, in stern reason's mail array'd,
'Gainst power, despotic, led the van;
And ere had set life's glorious sun,
The field of victory had won;
Then, who need dread an en'my's shocks,
When vanquish'd by immortal Fox?

286

IRISH ECONOMY.

[_]

AIR,—“Shieling O'Gary.”

Since I'm call'd for a song, let it be understood
That my voice is but harsh, and my ear is not good;
As to music, I ne'er in my life made pretence,
So I hope you'll look less to the sound than the sense.
But as for the subject, ay, there lies the deuce!
For war, love, and murder, are stale grown through use;
So I'll choose a new theme, quite apart from them all,
And scream you a stave about—Nothing at all.
Sing tara la, &c.

One fine August morning, before it grew dark,
On board of a steam ship I went to embark
For the kingdom of Scotland, the harvest to cut,
And I station'd myself 'hind a big water butt:
But, before we set sail, my ould mother says, “Pat,
I'm afraid you won't make it:” says I, “Why? for what?”
“Because you've no cash, man, to pay the Fingal:”
“Aisy, mother,” says I; “For that's—Nothing at all.”
Tara la, &c.

Then the vessel set off, with her fins by her side,
And up waves and down waves away she did ride;
Such splashing and dashing among the salt spray,
Made my head whirl round, and my eyes flew away:
And when it came round we our passage should pay,
I lay both blind and dumb, and my hearing gave way;
Though they rugg'd me and tugg'd me, and loudly did bawl,
I lay dead as a stone, and said—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.

At length we arrived on the sweet river Clyde,
Where a hundred fine vessels at anchor did ride:
Thinks I, it's high time that I should make a push,
So I button'd my coat, and away I did brush:
I plunged in the water, and swam underneath,
As long, 'pon my soul, as I could do for breath,
Till I came to the side, when I quick out did crawl,
And took to my heels, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.

So on I went to a cook-shop to take a repast,
As I nothing had ate since I sail'd from Belfast,

287

Where I dined upon excellent soup and cow-heel,
And, as I was hungry, I took a good meal:
But how to get off set my wits all at war,
For a jolly big landlady stood at the bar;
Till I tipp'd her a nobber, and down she did fall;
Then I tripp'd off at ease, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.

I was hired to cut corn with an ould moorland laird,
Who dragg'd us and slaved us confoundedly hard,
Where I pass'd for a fine boy, possess'd of much sense,
And was trusted to sleep with his son in the spence:
There I saw where the ould boy oft snugged his cash,
And resolved that some night I'd on it make a dash;
So I nipp'd off his purse from the head of the wall,
And, at midnight, tripp'd off, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.

Quick off I return'd to my own native place,
Some sixty pounds richer in so short a space;
Where I rigg'd myself out as a dandy complete,
And the heart won of every fair maid I did meet.
Now, all you young boys, that your fortune would make,
Try Scotland, the land of the thistle and cake;
If you find it not there, you may just close the ball,
And to Ireland return, saying—Nothing at all.
Tara la, &c.

BARNY BLAKE'S MISFORTUNE.

[_]

AIR.—“Green grow the rashes O.”

Och, boys! my name is Barny Blake,
I come from Londonderry town,
Great care my folk did of me take,
And let me ramble up and down:
Till I had grown a clever boy,
I roved about both night and day;
But when I first saw Molly Roy,
Och, dear! she stole my heart away.
Smiling, wiling, quite beguiling,
Sweet as honey then she spake;
Her rosy cheeks and sloe-black eyes
O'ercame the heart of Barny Blake.

288

My learning's of the Irish kind,
That's not to read, and count, and write:
Such things did never suit my mind,
So I learn'd to drink, and dance, and fight.
But Molly said—Och, Barny, boy!
You've always been a roving blade;
You ne'er can marry Molly Roy
Till you can keep her by your trade.
Brisk and jolly, lovely Molly,
That I'll do all for thy sake;
I'll list into the Carabineers,
If you'll but marry Barny Blake.

So off to Sergeant Grub went I,
Who paid me twenty guineas down;
With drink that night, and Molly Roy,
All care and sorrow I did drown.
Well, on we boused, both night and day,
And thus my bounty did destroy;
Och! when my cash was all away—
Off with a Tar fled Molly Roy!
Coaxing, hoaxing, leering, jeering
Girl, she made quite a rake;
And, after all this mischief done,
Adieu! said she, sweet Barny Blake!

Whene'er I knew that Moll had tripp'd
I did not tarry long behind,
For off that very night I slipp'd,
Through darkness, mire, through rain and wind:
But, och! a party follow'd fast,
And quickly did me overtake;
So then, I blubber'd out at last—
Farewell to freedom, Barny Blake!
No more with roaring, drinking, sploring,
Shall I spend a merry night,
For Molly's given me such a slip
That all my pleasure's ended quite.

A great court-martial they did hold,
And to three hundred sentenced me;
Though loudly I for mercy bawl'd,
The deuce a one did set me free:

289

But to the halberts fast me bound,
And all my darling back they tore;
I now invet'rate foes them found,
Whom I did take for friends before.
Moaning, sighing, groaning, crying—
Satisfaction they did take;
For not a soul among them all
Did pity show to Barny Blake.

Long in the hospital I lay,
Reflecting on my follies past,
For many a dull and sorry day;
But—now I'm well again at last—
I swear by sweet Killarney's lake,
By Belfast bridge, St. Patrick, too,
No wench shall cully Barny Blake,
But to his standard he'll be true:
And while I'm roaring, drinking, sploring,
Duty still I'll mind to do,
And never flinch to face the French,
Though on the field of Waterloo.

BARNY O'BRYNE.

[_]

AIR,—“Paddy Whack.”

Grave poets have sung of the glory of battle
In such glowing strains that our fancies they move,
So I long'd for the field where the loud cannon rattle,
Where war was pourtray'd as on object of love:
But, whether bards deal most in truth or in fiction,
Let each form his judgment—I'll tell you what's mine;
Then, pray ye, despise not the rude homely diction
Of hapless, but truth-telling Barny O'Bryne.

Quite tired cutting turf, with my ould uncle Barny,
I set off one morn from the plains of Kildare,
When Sergeant Kidnap, with his quizzical blarney,
Soon tipp'd me the shilling at Donnybrook fair:
My friends for me search'd, but I soon off was march'd;
I was drill'd and accoutred to rank in the line;
And none less fear'd dangers, in the Connaught Rangers,
Than rallying light-hearted Barny O'Bryne.

290

But quickly my valour was put to the trial,
For Bonny from Elba had made his escape;
Straight over to Brussels we'd orders to fly all—
I thought myself then in a terrible scrape.
At our embarkation, to leave my sweet nation,
The crowds on the beach were all shouting Huzza!
But, in midst of their cheering, I sigh'd out sweet Erin—
Sweet Erin mavourneen, Och, slan laught go brah!

The ship rowl'd and tumbled, and I growl'd and grumbled,
Was sea-sick, at death's door, the whole passage through,
And got no recreation for such botheration,
But faced the French lines out beyond Waterloo.
On the eighteenth of June, in the morning right soon,
Bugles, trumpets, and drums sounded—Form into line!
The French were advancing, their cavalry prancing—
Then fear seized the heart of poor Barny O'Bryne.

The cannon were pealing, the musketry reeling,
The clangour of steel rang both near and afar;
There was groaning and cheering, and cursing and swearing,
And crying and dying, for the glory of war.
I was hurried along, in the midst of the throng,
Through blood, fire, and smoke, oftentimes out of line,
Till I met my sad lot by a canister shot,
That lopp'd off both the limbs of poor Barny O'Bryne.

No more can I tell ye what after befell me,
Until from the doctors I rallied again,
On my new wooden legs, like two bass-fiddle pegs,
To totter through life in great sorrow and pain:
Although I must mention, I've got a good pension,
To keep me for aye, ne'er of want to repine;
Then let each Hibernian by me take good warning,
Nor tread the hard footsteps of Barney O'Bryne.

THE INSPIRED BACHELOR.

[_]

AIR,—“Jenny's Bawbee.”

Auld Robin was a shepherd leal,
A carefu', cannie, honest chiel,
Wha 'neath guid fortune's smile, fu' biel,
Lived fifty years an' twa.

291

Yet never thought he o' a wife,
To soothe the cares and toils o' life,
Though gowd and siller were baith rife
And ready at his ca'.

Upon a blithsome summer day,
While beakin' on yon sunny brae,
His lightsome lambs did friskin' play,
Wi' mirth and joy nae sma';
Sly Cupid, frae behind a thorn,
Wi' look dejected and forlorn,
Because he treated was wi' scorn,
His sharpest shaft did draw.

The arrow pierced the shepherd's heart,
He found the am'rous bitin' smart;
Resolved to act the lover's part,
Out, owre the muir, he flew,
To Nelly, merry, braw, and free,
Wi' rosy cheek and sparklin' e'e,
Wha ne'er the auld maid's life wad dree,
She aften did avow.

Wi' pantin' heart he reach'd the door,
On errand he ne'er gaed before;
Auld Bawtie raised a fearfu' roar,
That maist did Robin fley:
But Nelly quell'd the growlin' tyke,
And gaed wi' Robin yont the dyke:
Although he looked right auld like,
The siller fill'd her e'e.

I trow fu' lang they didna lie,
Till Nelly, hafflins, whisper'd Ay:
For weel ye ken what cash can buy,
Silks, rings, and hearts, and a'.
The day was set, and Robin cam',
And took young Nelly by the han';
So now they're canty wife and man,
And ha'e nae care ava.

292

NEIL M'NEIL'S NARRATIVE.

[_]

Tune,—“There's nae Luck about the House.”

Oich! fat you'll vant wi' Neil M'Lean,
You'll brangt her here tae nicht,
Her kens, you'll kens, her canna sang,
An' she'll no be wants to fecht;
But sin' she's here, she'll no backdraw,
Te let tae laddish ken,
Tat her mother was a shentleman,
Far, far 'yont Lomond-Ben.

Wi' a tara murin, yeichan duran, wheelam whalam whaw,
Lara lurin, cleechan cluran, sheelum shullam shaw.

But then she sprung't frae tat shief great,
Hur Glory o' Argyll;
Her faiter tell hur ne'er be pride,
Nor Hielinman beguile.
Sae far she cam't owre Campsie Hills,
To herd tae Lawlan's kyes,
But growt nane richer tan get trews,
Her braw legs ta tisguise.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

Soon as she cam te been wee man,
Her fee was crowan mair,
An' she want down ane summer tay,
To sawt tae Glasgow Fair:
An' tere she'll seent sae mony folk,
Her ribs them maist til crush;
Tae stant as tick, a' roun an' roun,
As treshes in a push.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

An' tere she mony shows tit sawt,
Aroun' tae hangman's loan,
An' tere she mony pagpipes heard,
Put coudna sawt ta drone;
An' tere she sawt a wee wee man,
Was fechtin wi' um's wife,
An' tae folk tit cawt um Mr. Toddie, or Mr. Grog,
Or some troll name like that, belangin tae ta whisky,
An' tae rogue him tuckt her life.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

293

An' tere she'll sawt sae mony peast,
Wi' ponny sprittilt hair,
Hersel' be sure tere was mair mae
Tan Moss-o'-Balloch fair;
Tere shentlemans an' ladish tance,
Teir claes wi' sixpence clad;
Och! gif her hae sae muckle cash,
Wi' shog she'll wad gae mad.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

An' tere she'll sawt a crowd o' horse,
Paith white, an' black, an' brown;
Tae gallop, put ne'er lift teir fit;
Tae caw 'um merry-go-roun';
An' though tae callop hale tay lang,
She neer cout saw't tum sweat,
An' he maun cruel maister pe,
Ta gi'e him's horse nae meat.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

Sae mony nunco sichts her sawt,
Her neen an' foot grew tire,
Ten she'll gangt to tae whisky house,
An' for tae dram inquire;
Tae maister him pringt in tae gill,
An' first tit drank himsel',
Put sic a whisky I ne'er sawt,
She was weaker nor tae well.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

A fiddle in tae nither room,
Gart lads and lasses dance,
Sae, whan she was gangt out hersel',
Shust stappit in by shance:
A pra' pra' ladysh says to her,
Come, lad, we'll ha'e tae reel;
Oich, Mattam! wi' my heart, says she,
But she's horse shoons on her heel.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

An' as her was sae kin' to me,
Shenteel to her was I,
I treatit her ben te drink tae gill,
An' eat the mutton pie;

294

An' tere we crack, an' dram, dram, dram,
An' dram, dram, dram, and crack,
Till nainsel' she fawt soun' asleep,
An' hadna payt ae plack.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

But when her wauken, in tae morn,
Oich, man! but she be try;
She think she'll could Lochlomon drink,
Sae loud for ale tit cry:
Her shappit ance, her shappit twice,
Her shappit thrice, an' a',
But teel ane came to nanser her,
Or tae toor lock te traw.

So you'll see, when she'll couldna get naebody to open tae room toor, her nainsel opens tae room window, and cries to a man tat was gaun bye, “could you'll tell her, frien', how she'll could win oot to get a trink, for gif she stay muckle langer here she'll be shockit wi' try!” an' says tae man, says him, “tiel tak' your Highlan' wame! gif ye ha'e drucken the house try tat ye're in, ye teserve tae want trink for a twalmonth!” So you'll see—an' him shust stapit awa'—so you'll see, when she sawt her could get nane help she shust looks town to tae causey, for she was tae twa story up—“Od,” say she to her nainsel', “'s shaist no' muckle far'er high than tae Craig o' Balloch, tat she loupit owre wan she was chaist wi' tae gauger, wan she'll rin't awa' wi' tae worm o' tae still. She'll try.” So shust wan she was be gaun to loup, tae maister o' tae house opens tae room toor, an' cries, “Whar are ye gaun, ye Highlan' vagabond! wait and pay your reck'nin' 'ore ye gang oot, or else he'll sent you to bridewell!” So she shust turn roun and mackit a pow, and said to him, “Oich, sir, her's nunko glad to see you, an' wou'd be blithe to be sent to either—the bride's well or the bridegroom's well—she'll cou'd tireck her to, for she's tat try she cou'd trink oot o' tae glooter sheugh.” “Od,” say him, “you'll needna been sae try, for ye left tae feck o' a gill and a pottle o' yill yestreen, when yon limmer left ye, after ye fell asleep; an' I set, shust set it by i' the press there. I thocht ye wad haen as muckle sense as fan' the smell o't whan ye waukent.” So her brangt him oot o' tae press, and she shust flewt on't like tae tiger, an' trank t'em a' baith; oich, man, it was refresh! Then says to tae maister, “What pe tae tamage yestreen?” “Oo,” say him, says the maister, “ye'll ken tere was shust seven trams an' sax pottles o' yill, an' the twa pies—that's shust four an' fourpence;—ay, an' tere was a proken glass, that's fivepence mair—five shillin's a' tegither; we'll sharge naething for lodgin', as she was only lyin' on the floor.” “Weel, weel,” say she, “'s gawn to be tae dear fair; petter she't been at her

295

wark; but, howsomenever, she'll be settle! so she shust puts her han' into the poush whar her siller wast—an', Ods guide her! she was awa', every pawbee; so she fin's tae tither poush, an' tae tither tither poush, an' a' tae poushes tegither—an' tae watch poush—put nae words o't! “Oich,” she'll says then, “she's peen rob, she's peen rob! she'll had ten shillin' whan she cam in yestreen, an' now she's a' awa'!” So says tae maister to me, says him, “it's a' ane to me that, though I'm sorry for't. I maun hae my reck'nin'; ye should hae keepit oot o' tae company o' sic a hizzie as you were wi' yestreen, for she wasna the wale o' ware, I doubt.” “Oich,” says she, “yon tecent, praw, ponny, modest, tancin', singin', laughin' ladysh, couldna be sae cruel as tak tae advantesh o' a poor 'onest lad tat had nane ill in his head, though he was fu'—no, no, she canna think tat!” “Devil tak' your impudence,” says the maister, “do ye think I teuk your siller, gif you had ony? come, come, see what way ye're gaun to pay me, an' than ye may think as favourably as ye like o' her ye teuk for a lady! Deil a bit, frien', if I was in your place I wud tak' the gowd; for, ye may depend on't, ye'll no' win out owre this door till ye pay me. There's a sergeant in our house, a kintraman o' yer ain, belongin' to the 42d, wad be as glad o' you as ye're o' him.” “Oich, oich,” thinks she, “this fair day will be a foul day to her nainsel onyway—for though she wad gangt pack to her wark now, her maister wad sen' her awa' again for fuddling sae lang.” So she shust gangt awa' toun tot ae searshen an listit, an' got ae shillin' for tae king, an' five frae the searshen, to pay the reck'nin',—an' the maister an' her was shust as good frien's as never, an' him gi'e us plenty mair trink; an' the searshen an' her spoken Gaelic about tae Highlan's; and sang, Tara murin, yeichan duran, &c.

She needna tell what wark her had,
Or she could learn the trade—
To stan', to march, prime, load, and fire,
Or stick the Frenchman dead.
But whan tae thocht tae could her trust
To fecht, and no to run,
Tae sent her te a warm place,
Straucht down aneth the sun.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

Oich! mony pattle she did foucht,
At a place tae cawt abroad,
An' though she'll try't to gang again
She cou'dna fin' the road:
An' she did mony places sawt,
She'll no be min' ta name;

296

Put tho' tae was most unco praw,
'Twas no half sae ponny's hame.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

But, oich! she fought an unco fought,
When ta cannon bullets flew,
And shot her ramrod and her han'
Awa' at Waterloo.
Her head ran roun', her near growt blin',
She fell upon ta grun,
And cryt, oich on! she'll fecht nae mair
Wi' either sword or gun.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

She'll get to 'charge and pension too,
And syne tit let her hame;
For a' ta trouble she comt through,
Oich! Bonny was to plame.
And now, my lads, tak' her advice,
Be cautious and tak' care;
You'll see what whiles lies in your lot
By gaun to Glasgow Fair.

Wi' a tara murin, &c.

THE SHEPHERD OF LORN.

[_]

AIR,—“The Beggar Girl.”

Cease, thou sweet linnet, to warble thy strain,
Cease, thou clear streamlet, thy murmuring flow,
And list a sad lover give vent to her pain,
While darkly her soul is o'ershadow'd with woe!

Mine is a lady's birth void of felicity;
Parents and friends all distract me with scorn;
All for my loving, with virgin simplicity,
That darling youth, the sweet Shepherd of Lorn.

Where now the joys wealth once proffer'd so free?
Where now the sweet fleeting phantoms of youth?
All fled! ever fled to oblivion from me!
No longer to wear the fair semblance of truth.

Cease, wretched memory! since peace hath forsaken me,
E'er to remind me to fortune I'm born,
For my sad fancy doth ever awaken thee,
Soul of my life, thou sweet Shepherd of Lorn!

297

MAGGIE PICKEN.

[_]

AIR,—“Whistle o'er the lave o't.”

Maggie Picken, on the shore,
Had it painted owre her door,
Never mind how lang's your score,
You're welcome yet to mair o't.
Maggie's blithe invitin' sign
Garr'd the ale ga'e down like wine;
Few gaun bye could e'er decline
To daunner in and share o't.

Maggie's ale was never sour,
Maggie's whisky aye was pure;
Nae sair heads we did endure
Frae Maggie's true Glenlivet:
Maggie's swats soon wauken'd glee,
Garr'd the hours like moments flee;
Faes red-wud at a law plea
Grew friends when they did pree it.

Oh what cheery nichts we spent,
Nichts o' whilk we ne'er repent;
Pleasure, leaving blithe content,
Her magic wand waved o'er us:
Dancin', singin', happy a',
Ne'er ane thocht o' gaun awa',
Though the cock's clear mornin' craw
Did join the merry chorus.

But Mackenzie's doolfu' Act
Has dung Maggie's run to wrack;
Weddin', ball, or social crack,
Maun end ere weel begun now:
Scarce the clock has chappit ten
When the police straucht comes ben,
Sayin', “Lads, the law, ye ken,
Allows na later fun now!”

Rents and licence, stents and a',
Maggie could nae langer draw;
Frae the shore she's now awa',
Whare lang she dwelt fu' cheery:
Trav'llers, wha afttimes before
Aye fand shelter on the shore,
Look in vain for Maggie's door,
For a's now dull and dreary.

298

MISS HARRIOT LUCY BROWN.

[_]

AIR,—“The Dandy O.”

Miss Harriot Lucy Brown,
At the west end of the town,
For these thirty years, has been the leading dandyzett,
While the public always cry,
They can't see the reason why
Such a beauty as Miss Harriot's never married yet.

But the cause is clear as light,
To a person with half sight,
Why this Clyde-side beauty's wiles have still miscarried yet;
Though she's half the town in thrall,
She's objections to them all;
Why then marvel that Miss Harriot's never married yet?

Mr. Black is rather fair,
Mr. Taylor's coat brush'd bare,
Mr. Mason's Boaz and Jachin rather bandy set,
Mr. Short is rather tall,
Mr. Mieckle rather small;
Not an Absalom could please this squeamish dandyzett!

Mr. Young is rather old,
Mr. Meek a vulgar scold,
Mr. Richer is to poor to run his carriage yet,
Mr. Sharp is rather flat,
Mr. Long is rather squat;
How the deuce then could Miss Harriot fix on marriage yet?

With her pickles and preserves,
Her confections and conserves,
Her snow-white teeth are, not a little, tinged with the jet;
To the dentist she must go,
And repair the upper row,
Then haply she may run a chance of marriage yet.

She hath toy'd so long with time
That she's fairly past her prime;
Still the wiling charms of love have with her tarried yet;
Though the rose hath fled her cheek,
She's a model of the antique,
So there's hope that sweet Miss Harriot will get married yet.

299

CALLER HERRIN'.

Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.
Come, wives, support the fishers' trade,
Wha still in peril earns his bread,
While round our coast, oft tempest toss'd,
He drags for caller herrin'.
So, then, buy them, and try them,
You'll find them special herrin';
With their gills red as roses,
Their een like diamonds shine.

Your braw blithesome bairns,
Wi' their wistfu' een a' glancin',
When they see caller herrin',
How delightfully they smile.
Then buy them, and fry them:
The weans will soon be dancin'
Round the fireside and table,
Your labours to beguile.
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.

The rich, the poor, the old, the young,
The sage, the simple, weak, and strong,
Rejoice to hear o' halesome cheer,
Like fine caller herrin'.
Then come buy caller herrin',
You wha dainties are preferrin'!
Their backs are like green grass,
Their sides like silver shine.

The salmon and mackerel
Can yield supply but scanty,
And, though costly, they scarcely
Reward the fisher's toil;
But grand shoals o' herrin'
Stream around our shores in plenty;
They're so sweet they may treat
The best lady of our isle.

300

Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're ane a penny, twa a penny;
Wha'll buy caller herrin'?
They're new come frae Lochfine.

THE LOVELY HUSSAR.

[_]

AIR,—“The Irish Boy.”

Young Jeannie stray'd lonely, and ofttimes she sigh'd,
While musing alone, on the green banks of Clyde;
For, early next morning, the route bore afar
The sole joy of her heart, her young lovely Hussar.

“Oh! hard is my fate,” cried the love-languid maid;
“The bright dawn of hope, now, is darken'd by shade;
From favour my friends will me doubtless debar,
Should I harbour one thought of my lovely Hussar.

“Adieu, lovely scenes, to me pleasant no more!
His absence I mourn who oft charm'd me before;
Oft here, till the dawn of the bright morning star,
I have roam'd arm-in-arm with my lovely Hussar.

“No more will he twine me the chaplet of flowers,
Nor with tales of love wing the else dreary hours;
Since morn's golden smile, and the loud trump of war,
Waft afar from my arms my young lovely Hussar.

“It is not his beauty I most do admire,
Though beauty is his to the eye's whole desire,
But his bright mental charms, more alluring by far,
Are the magic that beams from my lovely Hussar.

“Gay summer may smile, but to me smile in vain;
And autumn, unheeded, may wave o'er the plain;
Grim winter, enthroned on thy dark rolling car,
Join my woe, since I'm lost to my lovely Hussar.

“With deep-rooted anguish my bosom doth burn,
No blithe ray of hope says he e'er will return;
Yet, while from my arms, sad, he wanders afar,
I'll retain in my heart my young lovely Hussar.”

301

THE BONNIE BANKS OF CALDER.

[_]

AIR,—“The Birks of Aberfeldie.”

Mary, wilt thou go with me? go with me, go with me?
Mary, wilt thou go with me, to the bonnie banks of Calder?

Grim winter now hath spent his rage,
And summer's charms the heart engage;
Let's seek the heath-clad hermitage,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.

The western breeze, from birk and broom,
Wafts through the glen a sweet perfume,
And flowers unnumber'd sweetly bloom,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.

Dull solitude no longer lours,
For music cheers the dark-green bowers,
And blithely glide the lightsome hours,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.

In purest love we'll spend the day,
'Neath honey-suckles waving gay,
Where blackbirds trill the dulcet lay,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.

And, should the destiny be mine
To lead my love to Hymen's shrine,
I'd rapt'rous meet that joy divine,
On the bonnie banks of Calder.

Torrance Hermitage.

MARY'S LAMENT.

[_]

AIR,—“Will ye come to the Bower?”

Now no longer with pleasure the meadows I tread,
For the sweet smiles of nature from me are all fled;
And here I stray
The live-long day
In solitude and pain,
To mourn the fate
Of him who late
At Waterloo was slain.

302

Though the thrush sweetly carols, at evening and morn,
From the green fragrant birch or the white flowery thorn,
Yet still from me
Doth pleasure flee,
Ne'er to return again;
For my love lies,
No more to rise,
On Waterloo's red plain.

Then I'll mingle my sighs with the wail of the dove,
For she has lost her mate now, and I've lost my love;
And, till to death
I yield my breath,
I'll constantly complain,
For the hard fate
Of him who late
At Waterloo was slain.

COME TO YON BIRKEN BOWER.

[_]

AIR,—“Pray Goody.”

Come, Flora, to yon birken bower,
To shun the noontide rays,
And talk of love till Phœbus leave the sky.
The roses wide their fragrance shower
Throughout the woodland maze,
And sweet the streamlet murmurs bye:
Flowers spring; birds sing,
With their music rocks ring;
Roaming fancy's luring glances
Charm the mental eye.
Come Flora, &c.

Laburnum waves her yellow hair,
Where honey-suckles twine
With ivy green, in yonder sweet alcove;
The hum of bees floats through the air,
Till Zephyr fan the pine
And aspen, trembling in the grove.
Nearest, dearest,
Still my soul thou cheerest;
Looks of love all cares remove
From me, while thus we rove.
Laburnum waves, &c.

303

ANNA, MY DEAR!

[_]

AIR,—“Robin Adair.”

Whence springs that bosom sigh,
Mournfully drear?
Why in thy languid eye
Starts the sad tear?
“Oh! 'tis for her that's gone
To that dark world unknown,
And left me here alone—
Anna, my dear!

“Now, though the smile of spring
Nature doth cheer,
And birds melodious sing,
Charming the ear;
Still every grot and grove,
While there I pensive rove,
Echoes this dirge of love—
‘Anna's not here!’

“Sad now the tinkling rill
Sighs on my ear;
Thoughts through my bosom thrill
Painful to bear!
Still round her lonely urn
Shall sad remembrance mourn;
Yet never will return
Anna, my dear!”

MARIA.

[_]

AIR,—“O Nanny wilt thou gang wi' me.”

Maria was the sweetest maid
That dwelt on Turio's verdant banks;
But her dear lover left the shade,
To join the patriotic ranks.
On war's dire field he fought and fell;
Maria heard the woful tale;
She wept—she bade the world farewell,
And in yon convent took the veil.

304

Secluded from the noisy world,
She, pensive, spends the dreary hours;
To grief's distracting vortex hurl'd,
She still the tide of sorrow pours.
Her cheek, once like the blushing rose,
With grief, now vies the lily pale;
Maria now no pleasure knows,
But in yon convent wears the veil.

DARKSOME WINTER'S COME AGAIN.

[_]

AIR,—“Gloomy Winter's now awa.”

Cheerfu' simmer's past and gane,
Yellow autumn's left the plain,
Darksome winter's come again,
And ilka thing looks dreary, O.
Loud the hail-showers, dark and chill,
Sweep along the Eldrigg hill;
Birdies cease their lays to trill,
That wont to chaunt fu' cheery, O.
Rudely now the norlan' breeze
Tears the cleadin' aff the trees;
Frosts the windin' burnies seize,
That ne'er wi' wimplin' weary, O.

Fled's the face o' every flower
That did bloom on field and bower,
Sullen winter's cranreugh lour
Gars ilka thing look eerie, O.
Cauld the driftin' blast doth blaw,
Fillin' glens wi' wreaths o' snaw;
Courin' flocks, by dell and shaw,
Are bleatin' wild and dreary, O.
Yet, the blithesome smile o' spring
Will gar a' wi' music ring;
Then ilk swain on braes will sing
The praises o' his deary, O.

305

POEMS.

Solitude.

Hail, hoary Sage! immured by woods and rocks,
Remote from dissipation's gadding eye,
Who, 'neath the shade of dark umbrageous oaks,
Hast wisely shunn'd ambition's grating cry;
And who, while thousands vaguely rove, awry,
From the calm path that leads to wisdom's shrine,
Dost point thy vot'ries to the garnish'd sky,
The radiant empire of that Power Divine
By whose omnific word those countless orbs do shine.

Thee, Solitude, I sing, whose placid smile
Hath woo'd me ofttimes to thy hermit cave—
Far from the crowd's ear-stunning fervid broil—
Where purling streams the wending willows lave;
Or, where wild-thyme and heath in blossom wave,
Hath held thy lucid mirror to my view—
Shown sage philosophy, abstractly grave,
The flood of mind and matter wading through;
And, though he toil'd and learn'd, scarce less his lesson grew.

Ye who, enraptured, trip the dancing hall,
Or gaily circle round the racy bowl,
While from the minstrels showers of music fall,
And bright enchantment elevates the soul,
Think! For, while thus in fleeting joys ye roll,
Time's swiftest gale down life's short vista glides,
Sweeping, with irresistible control,
The race of man to death's oblivious tides,
Where horror's sable frown in awful gloom presides.

Nor deem the graver class of humankind
Less bless'd than you, though different be their aims;
For in sobriety they pleasures find,
Though fashion's roll exhibit not their names:
And this they do, experience sage exclaims,

306

Else well they might participate your joys;
But, ah! they know how riot's end defames
His conduct, justly, with her clam'rous voice,
Who haunts her wanton courts, and joins her crackling noise.

How stale the cold routine of vacant mirth,
Which on the mind leaves no improving trace,
But seeks its tomb soon as it finds its birth,
Close lock'd within oblivion's firm embrace!
The masquerade's low-born buffoon grimace
May tickle hearts by folly overrun,
While they who love true wisdom's hallow'd face
Such trifling aping both detest and shun,
While undiscerning crowds are by its snares undone.

Experience ask, and hist'ry's worthy page,
Then say what work, or great or good, appears
Fit reason's scrutinising eye t' engage,
Through the long lapse of nigh six thousand years,
But sprung from Solitude, whose mirror clears
From feculence opaque the mental powers?
Who wisdom's flag o'er error's urn uprears,
E'en in her solemn, scarce-frequented, bowers,
As lightly glide along the evanescent hours.

We praise, esteem, admire, yea, half adore
The sons of genius, modern or remote,
And, keen, their modes of acting oft explore,
While, with increasing love, we on them dote;
Yet whence, but from the lone sequester'd grot
Or study-closet, came their works abroad?
To rescue—from the sinking rabble's lot,
Forgetfulness—their names, who nobly trod
The path of wisdom fair, which leads to fame's abode.

For what but this did Grecian poets fly
From jarring life to pure Olympus' top?
Thence flow'd their lays, doom'd ne'er in time to die,
But stand as models till life's curtain drop:
Unfetter'd fancy there had ample scope
To scan the intellectual regions round;
There reason her mysterious way did grope
Through error's furzy labyrinth profound,
While tyrant passion lay, quite vanquish'd, on the ground.

307

Learn'd great Demosthenes his powerful art
Amid society's tumultuous roar?
No: he acquired to captivate the heart
Where brawling waves howl'd on the rocky shore:
The mind's whole windings did he nice explore,
Mark'd when the potent cadence had effect—
Wielded at will their hearts who stood before
His awful presence—drawing all respect
When rousing them to arms, their freedom to protect!

'Twere endless to recount the names of such
As Socrates and Plato, truly wise;
Or Aristotle, from whose wisdom much
Of Alexander's glory did arise;
Or those who dwelt beneath Italia's skies,
And rose to fame, in learning or in war;
Tully and Cæsar soon the muse espies,
And him, of song the most effulgent star
'Mong heathen bards, Virgil, who sweetest sang by far.

These first in Solitude were well refined
Ere in life's drama they conspicuous shone;
Their brows did fame with verdant laurels bind,
To bloom when countless millions are unknown.
To other lands, O Muse, why hast thou gone,
To cull the relicts of the mighty dead?
Thy sons, Britannia, are surpass'd by none
Who o'er the world have such bright lustre shed
As hath thee raised to be its wonder and its dread:

Here stands great Newton! grave, with mind serene,
Who search'd out Nature's laws, though dark and deep,
Nor erring wander'd; for the vast machine
He clear expounded, and, with potent sweep,
Exiled dull sophistry, to wail and weep
Beneath the fell contempt of after days;
Consign'd her folios, now a useless heap,
As fuel on the burning hearth to blaze—
Glorious, his name will shine while heaven her light displays:

Thine is a Locke, of penetration keen,
Whose hair-dividing metaphysic eye
Man's wondrous immaterial part hath seen,
And clear'd the mist that thereon long did lie:
A Milton thine, who sang, in numbers high,

308

Man's woeful fall, by Lucifer beguiled,
Who doth each bard, heaven-uninspired, outvie,
That struck the lyre since Sol on terra smiled,
To ward her in her course from devious rovings wild.

O Nature! in what strange capricious fit
Didst thou to Shakespeare's muse such fire impart—
Such bold description, and bright flashing wit,
Such peerless knowledge of the human heart?
Doubtless to show thy power, devoid of art,
To prune proud learning's all-ambitious wing—
Conviction on the muse's sons to dart,
That, without thee, in vain they try to sing;
For never from the harp true harmony they'll bring.

Much were the muse to blame, should she neglect,
When roused her country's sages to detail,
To pay the tribute of profound respect
Due to the memory of godlike Hale;
Humble, amidst true honour's prosp'rous gale;
Just, while the golden bait of bribery flow'd;
Feeling, to soothe want's supplicative wail;
Awful in judgment, to the wretch who trode
The flagrant paths of guilt which lead to death's abode.

Nor wants she names in heath-clad Caledon
To grace the bright saturnian roll of fame;
For, through the gloom of other days, far gone,
Her sons of genius uneclipsed flame.
In classic lore, what modern bold dare claim
Precedency to chaste Buchanan's muse?
Or thy sweet lays (which carping cynics aim
Quite to explode by sophistry profuse),
Ossian, great Celtic bard, nursed 'mid the mountain dews?

A Gregory, a Ferguson, a Blair,
A Beattie, a M'Laurin, and a Keil,
Auspiciously have fallen to her share,
Whose labours have made learning's garden smile:
A Thomson, whose sweet strains the hours beguile,
As if the talisman's enchanting wand
Raised, to our still delighted eye, the while,
The varied scenery of every land,
Whose memory for aye will time's assaults withstand.

309

And was there patriot e'er, who fought or bled,
That with heroic Wallace can compare?
His was the undaunted soul, 'mong dangers bred,
On fields of war, or 'mid the mountain air:
His mighty mind drew inspiration there
From Solitude, the nurse of virtues strong;
And when his country's plains were plunder'd bare,
He rid her of the base marauding throng,
And raised her thistle's head, that drooping hung so long.

View these, ye sons of ever-joyous mood!
Scan their biography with critic eye!
And own the peerless power of Solitude
In aiding minds for works that never die.
Base is the soul that haunts the nauseous sty
Of riot, losing life's true halcyon joys,
While time's on wing, and merit raising high
Her roll of honour, free to all whose choice
It is to mind her call, and spurn earth's sensual toys.

Nor only to the sons of science are
Her powers propitious; mild devotion, too,
From crude society sequester'd far,
Soars into ecstacies of joy still new:
Untroubled there she rapt'rous can pursue
Her hopeful prospects in the world unknown,
Beneath the fragrant birch or sable yew,
Where mourning streams sigh with incessant tone:
Her sweetest hours she spends in wild-wood shades alone.

The smile of day on woods, and fields, and flowers,
Shows nature's charms far, far surpassing art,
While native music flows from blooming bowers,
With power to captivate the feeling heart:
Still, solemn, lonely night doth charms impart
To minds which are to contemplation given,
When sumless stars their twinkling splendour dart,
Of golden hue, from circumambient heaven,
While every thought that's mean is from the bosom driven:

Then strays the saint beside the purling brook,
In close communion with the Deity,
When through the jarring city's every nook
Rings the unhallow'd voice of revelry:
And then, too, roused to true sublimity,

310

Deep musing, roams the pensive child of song;
Or when ascends the lark's blithe melody
O'er freshest meads, with rushes waving long,
Tuning his dulcet lay as vaults his fancy strong:

And when he casts a retrospective glance
Upon the perils of the days of yore,
When persecution's deadly sword and lance
Deep dyed these lovely wilds in human gore,
The tide of sympathy swells more and more
Within his breast, and quite o'erwhelms his soul,
For those who fought true freedom to restore,
Or, hapless, fell, to grace the martyr's roll,
Tasting the unsav'ry dregs of death's impoison'd bowl:

Such scenes as these half-sanctified he deems,
And, frequent, paces o'er the dreary ground,
While o'er the darksome hills the lightning gleams,
And thunder from the welkin peals around;
Or haply, stretch'd upon the verdant mound,
By Roman hands uprear'd in th' olden time,
Thousands of thoughts upon his fancy bound,
And swell his soul to ecstacy sublime;
Then rolls the rapid tide of pure orig'nal rhyme:

More sweet to him the wild-fowl wailing shrill,
Or bleating lambs, far o'er the heathy moor,
Or mourning soft of lonely mountain rill,
Than theatres, where flashes wit impure;
A gifted Kean may thitherward allure
The gaping throng, by skill in mimicry;
But, to th' impassion'd mind, impart no cure,
While trips the wanton siren levity;
Remote from this lewd court dwells true philosophy.

Not all the polish of a Roman court,
In highest rank, where true politeness shone,
Where learning bright display'd her radiant port,
Could Jerom's heart to virtue's mandates tone:
No: 'twas in Bethle'm's humble village, lone,
The glorious conquest o'er his lusts he won,
'Neath whose fell sway he long oppress'd did groan,
When, beaming bright, arose the gospel-sun,
Dispelling from his soul of vice the vapours dun:

311

On sacred truths were all his thoughts transfix'd,
Incessant, pondering o'er the hallow'd page;
Hence study keen, with warm devotion mix'd,
Subdued to quiet passion's burning rage.
Such power has Solitude to disengage
The soul from objects mean, to raise her aims,
The thirst for splendid trifling to assuage,
And mark punctiliously fair Virtue's claims,
Who eternizes still her noble vot'ries' names.

But deem not Solitude for ever dwells
On heathy hills, wild wolds, or lonely vales,
'Midst woods and rocks, and fairy-haunted dells,
Where nought obtrusive eye or ear assails:
Oft in the city all his power prevails,
Within the closet's taper-lighted bourn,
Where study pores; or pale affliction wails,
Through adverse fate, or friends laid in the urn;
Or penitence laments time lost ne'er to return:

There many a wight, “unnoticed and unknown,”
A life of toil and poverty expends,
And, when his latest tie on earth is gone,
For him in black appear no weeping friends;
Thus strangely, woefully, his life he ends,
In frightful Solitude, amid the throng;
More sadly drear than he who never blends
Among society, but all life-long
Dwells in the hermit-shades, and die's the same among:

And there the sage his mental toil pursues,
With ceaseless ardour, in his still recess,
Where passion ne'er his face distorted shows,
Nor riot enters, with obscene address;
Unheard his name, till wide the teeming press
His sapient labours to the world displays;
Then lauding thousands join his name to bless,
And through the letter'd world his fame to raise,
And twine the laurel-wreath or ever-verdant bays.

But, should commercial bustle time deny
For lonely contemplation, prime of joy,
The sacred-day have we, by mandate high,
When nought obtrusive dares the mind annoy;
In acts devotional, without alloy,

312

Who may not join, and reap the harvest bless'd?
The themes which highest Seraphim employ
May well claim entrance to the human breast,
When, sweet, they soothe the soul with hopes of endless rest:

A day ordain'd for spiritual delight—
Deep consultation with the inner man;
For pond'ring revelation's records bright,
Which show redemption's all-excelling plan:
Yet, oh! what swarms of wretches, direly wan,
With quenchless riot, lounge along the streets!
Who ne'er one act by wisdom's standard scan,
Nor of retirement lone partake the sweets,
But scorn, with brazen front, heaven's promises and threats!

Far let me wander from their converse vile,
To breathe the halcyon fragrant mountain air,
While from the east th' illuming sun doth smile,
And fields bright gleam, bespread with di'monds fair;
While birds the cheering power aloud declare,
In matins sweet, from forest, hill, and plain;
There let me usher in the day of prayer
With contemplation's soul-enriching train,
Unseen by mortal eye, save some mild early swain:

Here let me trace, within the sacred code,
Him o'er whose head hung envy's dagger dire,
The darling of his father and his God,
Joseph, enslaved to glut fraternal ire;
Or Israel's destined, legislative sire,
On Midian mountains tending, lone, his flock,
Where, from the bush of sight-bedazzling fire,
God him commission'd with the awful shock
'Gainst Egypt's sons, who bound round Jacob's neck the yoke;

Or Joshua, waving red destruction's sword,
Death-edged, from God's terrific armoury,
O'er Palestine, devoted by the Lord,
To drink the blood of her cursed progeny;
Or David, famed for sacred minstrelsy,
Wand'ring the desert wild, the mountain drear,
Or pouring forth the heart-felt elegy
For those who fell, by woeful doom severe,
Upon Gilboa's hills, by sabre, bow, and spear;

313

Or Jeremiah, in the dungeon chill;
Or Buzi's son, by limpid Chebar's strand;
Or Daniel, raised, by God's all-ruling will,
To princely sway in Babel's distant land;
Or John the Baptist, the forerunner grand
Of Him whose love earth's every clime should see—
Who gave existence, by his sole command,
To all things in creation's bounds that be,
Yet deign'd to die for man, from sin to set him free!

O'er themes like these how sweetly glide the hours,
Till, call'd from roaming by the village bell,
Homeward I tread, o'er dew-bespangled flowers,
And leave the sighing stream and silent dell!
There peace and pleasure, in sweet concord, dwell;
There blithe content, with brow unruffled, reigns;
There ne'er is heard rude riot's bedlam swell,
Nor base deception friendship's visage feigns;
But, glowing, mutual love prevails 'mong honest swains.

Although retirement's soothing sweets I sing,
Entire seclusion sternly I decry:
From convents dull what good result can spring,
Whose inmates social nature's laws deny?
Or hermit, far removed from mortal eye,
In woods and caves, sad, sullen, sitting lone,
A whole life through, in wild obscurity,
Where tempest-shaken forests deeply moan—
His bed the rushy mat, his seat the mossy stone?

Ah, none! Creation's Lord hath so ordain'd
That mutual intercourse best suits our race:
Each is dependent; therefore is constrain'd
To court affiance with his brother's grace;
Nor, though exalted to the regal place,
Where riches, honours, titles, brightly blaze,
Ought squinting scorn e'er to distort his face,
Nor demon-pride his wrath malignant raise;
But fellow-love should gild his most propitious days.

Thus wants, reciprocal by nature, say—
An endless Solitude for man's not meet!
Yet, in the dawn and eve of life's long day,
'Tis right her silent arbours oft to greet;
In that, to nerve the soul with knowledge sweet,

314

To guide through sleek temptation's mazy wood—
In this, to take a retrospect, complete,
How oft to vice we fell, to virtue stood,—
And close the chequer'd scene in solemn Solitude!

Address to the Protestant.

Hail! buckler o' auld orthodoxy,
To speak and write ye need na'e proxy;
Yon louns, wha vainly tried to hoax ye
Wi' sophistry,
Wad now, I'm rede, be fain to coax ye
To quat the play.

Doilt wights! to think that their weak gabblin'
Wad prap the tumblin' Whore o' Bab'lon,
Or that, by dint o' friendlike fablin',
To plant Rome's creeds—
My sooth, ye've garr'd them quat their quibblin',
Wi' hingin' heads.

Hech! but it gars my elbow yeuk
Wi' joy to pore upon your beuk,
That doth sae weel ilk grousome neuk
O' Popery rummage,
And ilka peacock-pinion pluck
Frae her gay plumage.

Ne'er, since the days o' Johnny Knox,
Wha rear'd our temple orthodox,
Has auld Papa, the wily fox,
Tholed sic a birsel,
Whilk's garr'd some herds o' his ain flocks
Maist tine their hirsel.

Sma' thanks his godship, sure, will gi'e
To yon zeal-rash vain-glorious three,
Wha boost sey to set heads wi' thee,
Wha garr'd them rin
Like thistle down out-owre the lea,
Blawn by the win'.

315

Ye've raised bedeen a bonny clamour
Amang the quacks o' ghastly glamour;
His Holiness maun ca' the chamer,
Wi' grim grimace,
To see what rule o' Satan's grammar
Will fit the case.

Aha! Saint Peter's legatees,
Wha enter heaven by pick-lock keys,
Will fin' this is nae slight disease,
Purged aff by physic;
There lurks in ilka diocese
A deadly phthisic.

Oh happy day, when Europe wide
The deep delusion shall have spied,
And thrown the brazen bands aside,
That's gall'd sae lang,
While Rome's base priestcraft's hellish pride
Triumphant rang.

Haud to the louns, and gi'e them't het!
Rip up ilk knavish beggarplet!
Till, on ilk Catholic chapel yett,
We plain can read,
In letters large, “A Kirk to Let,”
Since Popery's dead!

Scawt Connaught then may shout Huzza!
Nae mair around the chapel wa'
She'll creep, bare-knee'd, wi' pinin' awe,
To won heaven's haven;
She now can read anither law,
Cleared by M'Gavin.

Pax, Amicus Veritatis, et Eusebius Andrews.

The conclave.

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF HIS MAJESTY George the Third.

Green spring returns to Britain's sea-girt shore,
And birds again resume the cheerful lay,
But Britain's gen'rous sons now deep deplore
Their venerable sovereign, torn away
By death, who rules with unrelenting sway,

316

Nor spares the monarch more than peasant poor;
And mighty George sleeps 'neath his kindred clay
In the grim vault of death, where, all demure,
The conq'ring tyrant reigns with black and sullen lour.

His was the fate, while in the morn of life,
In splendour bright, to mount the regal throne;
And his the lot to wail incessant strife,
While, deep, his nation under war did groan:
Yet heaven, propitious, left him not to moan
Beneath the sorrows of his country's woe;
But, in that way mysterious and unknown,
Bereft his mind of reason—thus the throe
Intense of weeping grief ne'er from his soul could flow.

Though sad be life, when barr'd the gates of sense,
And strangely wild be lunacy's abode,
Yet fancy oft dispels the gloom, though dense,
And shows her florid fields for reason's road:
Such regions fair our fated monarch trod,
Nor seem'd perplex'd throughout th' enchanting scene,
Till death, obsequious to the will of God,
Wide scatter'd all the fairy visions sheen—
Changed for that land, we trust, unknown to care and teen.

How bless'd the change! though here a monarch great,
Whose voice gave law to Europe's regions wide;
Whose arms, victorious, waved the flag of fate
On Mars' red fields and Neptune's rolling tide:
How bless'd the change! if, by the verdant side
Of life's pure stream, the victor's crown he wear,
Wreath'd with the palm of triumph, while do glide
The dulcet strains of angels on the ear,
To Him who ransom'd man by suff'rings so severe!

In vain the human character we scan,
If pure perfection our criterion be,
Since every act and thought of fallen man
Deep tinged with guilt obscene we feel and see;
Yet, in the rank of life he moved, how free
From vice imperial was our gracious king;
Revered by all who virtue love was he;
And Britain's sons his mournful requiem sing,
While mem'ry round his tomb hails ever-blooming spring.

317

Nigh threescore years he o'er our wondrous isle,
In troublous times, the golden sceptre sway'd,
And bold his daring subjects strove the while
Destruction's blow terrific to evade:
Each nerve was strung, and every effort made
To stand of tyranny the thund'ring shock;
And peace at length dispell'd war's gloomy shade,
When pride's enthralling chain in twain was broke,
And Europe was set free from slavery's galling yoke.

Now solemnly his passing-bell is rung,
Which from the feeling soul awakes the sigh;
And now the choir the lay of death hath sung,
That, thrilling keen, bedims the downcast eye;
And now, in death's strong fetters bound, doth lie
Britannia's king, pale, in the gelid urn,
Which speaks the solemn truth, that “all must die”—
Though pompous pride the rigid law should spurn,
And royalty superb, with hatred red, should burn!

DIRGE ON THE DEATH OF Queen Caroline.

Daughters of Britain, twine the cypress wreath
Around your polished brows like virgin snow;
And dress yourselves in sackloth, for beneath
The stroke of death lies Albion's glory low,
Queen Caroline, alas! the hapless child of woe!

Hers was the soul, by dauntless virtue steel'd,
That braved the sternest shock of calumny!
Hers was the fortitude that hath reveal'd
The power of Christian magnanimity,
'Gainst hell's battalia fierce, in serried, deep array.

Who holds a heart that can unmoved see
Sweet innocence bereft of earthly joy?
Yet such there are in Britain's bounds, ah, me!
Who sought her every comfort to destroy,
And pleasure had in nought but what could her annoy.

318

Curse on their ruthless and unmanly hearts,
Could blast the pleasure of a nation's love;
Come, retribution, mark their just deserts,
And hurl the bolt of vengeance from above
On their malignant heads who scathed the harmless dove.

Auspicious heaven beheld the quenchless ire
That burned within the bosom of each foe,
And granted in the end her warm desire
To bid adieu to every thing below,
When all was sabled o'er with persecution's woe.

And now she's cross'd the dark eternal bourn,
Far from the grasp of enemies malign;
But mem'ry, bending o'er her gelid urn,
Shall shed the tear of sympathy benign
For Britain's injured Queen, the hapless Caroline.

Queen Caroline, the persecuted wife of George IV. died at Brandenburgh House, on Tuesday, 7th August, 1821, in the 53d year of her age.

LINES ON The Death of Buonaparte.

Can grief pervade a Britain's heart
To read the death of Buonaparte,
Whose never satiated ambition
Hath brought our land to this condition?
Yes, just reflection pensive throws
A look of sympathy on foes;
Nor can she, with invidious heart,
Wield retribution's whetted dart;
But, with a loving, pitying eye,
A British magnanimity,
Weeps o'er a fallen enemy,
Though fell as Buonaparte.

Ah! who can count the thousands slain
To give his wild ambition rein!
Ah! who can weigh the load of grief,
The anguish, finding no relief,
Which o'er our land relentless hung,
While woe mark'd every eye and tongue,
When he in scales the nations weigh'd,
And his satanic sceptre sway'd?

319

Fleet as the wind sweeps o'er the heath,
Post after post brought news of death;
Afresh the streams of sorrow start,
But never ease the burden'd heart:
No parent's, brother's, sister's tear,
No relative's nor lover's fear,
Could melt the eye or ope the ear
Of direful Buonaparte.

We pity those whom fate malign
Hath doom'd, in want or pain, to pine;
We wail the wretch whom ruthless hap
Brings to the gibbet's fatal trap,
Whose crime perhaps is treason dire,
Or murder, done in midst of ire,
Or forgery, caused by pressing want,
Or stealth, when means of life are scant.
She inly groans with stifled breath
To list the piercing knell of death;
That knell, the law's terrific nod,
Which sites him to the bar of God.
But, ah! what sympathy claims he,
The boasted friend of liberty,
Who, twenty years, by field and flood,
Drench'd Europe with her children's blood?
Much! then let Britons, Christians named,
For pity and forgiveness famed,
Bid hatred, vengeance, both depart,
While charity's warm tears do start;
Let each, within his little sphere,
Of sly ambition's wiles beware,
And mark pride's fatal, final share,
In hapless Buonaparte.

The Battle of Issus,

Fought between ALEXANDER THE GREAT and DARIUS, King of Persia.

I.

Ambition! whence thy resting place?
Or hast thou none e'er found?
Alas! thy every-stinging case
Home, peace, and love have drown'd:

320

Thou canst not see, nor canst thou hear,
The name superior or compeer,
But instant swells thy envious soul
To sink him under thy control;
Though, to accomplish thy desire,
Whole cities blaze in vengeful fire;
Though thousands draw their latest breath
Upon the bloody field of death;
Though Pity, bathed in silent tears,
The scream of ravish'd maidens hears;
All must obey thy dire command,
Though desolation sweep the land.

Great Philip's conquest-loving son
Did court thy meteor glare,
Till he the Eastern world had won,
By blood, and toil, and care:
Thus, great in fame and grandeur grown,
A vanquish'd world at will his own;
Puff'd up, no longer he'll confess
He sprung was from the mortal class—
But doth assume the sovereign nod,
And doth proclaim himself a god;
Until the vine's subduing power
Did wheel around the fatal hour
Which caused him enter death's dark portal,
And claim his friendship with the mortal;
Fate's barbed dagger struck the blow,
And laid him like his fellows low.

Say, muse! for thou alone canst spy,
With thy bright retrospective eye,
The lapse of ages past—
Say, what eventful deeds were done,
That day, by Philip's martial son;
What numbers breathed their last.
Thy wings expand, and waft me o'er
The gulph of ages gone;
Oh bear me to Cilicia's shore,
Nor leave me there alone:
To me the battle scene unfold
Which fought was in the days of old—

321

The feats of valour there perform'd,
The hapless victims how deform'd,
The warriors' face, indignant burning,
Repell'd by force, with hope returning!
The din of arms, the battle shout,
The victor's fire, the conquer'd's rout!
And, when I've view'd this scene of yore,
Return me to my native shore,
With peace and freedom sweet to dwell,
Far from the noisy battle's swell.

Loth rose the low November sun,
To gild the dark horizon;
The sight that day he sought to shun
Behind the vapours, floating dun;
A sight so dire he never cast his eyes on!
He sought it to evade in vain,
For quickly clear'd the dewy plain,
And, full before his potent ray,
The battle ranks appear'd that day:
He heard the war clang sounding high,
The wounded groan, the conquer'd sigh!
He saw the Persians backward reel
Before the glare of Grecian steel,
And, ere he kiss'd the shades of night,
The Persian army put to flight!

II.

In front appears great Alexander,
The far-famed Grecian commander,
On whose brow sat deliberation
In this momentous situation;
Cool, yet intrepid, was his mien;
He first in danger still was seen;
Undaunted views the Persian host
While others judged the cause was lost.
Ere yet the gallant bands engage,
To fire each mind with martial rage,
He thus address'd his daring few,
Who were arranged in order due:—

“Heroes! you see the time draws nigh
To be enslaved, or nobly die
Beneath the conq'ring foe!

322

Each hold, with death grasp, sword or spear,
Nor flinch a foot, in van or rear,
For all their glaring show!
Though on they move, in phalanx deep,
Sheer from the plain our files to sweep,
Withstand the shock quite undismay'd;
For lance or spear be none afraid;
Their weak effeminated front
Will yield, when once it feels your brunt;
And then, into confusion driven,
The vict'ry sure to us is given.
Remember how—in days of yore,
What hate they to our fathers bore,
When Xerxes led his countless band
To spread destruction o'er our land—
Our valiant sires them vanquish'd quite,
And put the cumbrous horde to flight.
Spoil for the spoiler there you see,
If you on plunder bent should be;
Revenge for those whose fathers fled
Before their power, or nobly bled:
Remember, that in no community
Strength lies in numbers, but in unity.
The day is ours, I see it, won
Before the setting of the sun;
Th' immortal hills our stable flanks;
‘Revenge or death’ rings through our ranks!
Our hearts are true, our cause is just,
And Persia yield before us must!”

III.

While thus the Grecian chief address'd
His dauntless warlike band,
Warm glow'd with rage each hero's breast:
Like rocks, unmoved they stand.

The Persian golden banner's glare
In vain doth gild the plain;
Or, swelling through the ambient air,
Loud rings their battle strain.

Now shone the sun with argent beam,
And, glitt'ring in his rays, appears
Upon the field, with furbish'd gleam,
Six hundred thousand swords and spears.

323

To music sweet they moved along,
Which, echo'd through th' etherial realm,
Join'd with the shout and battle song,
Threat'ning the Grecian host to 'whelm.

But, ah! how oft is boasting quash'd!
And meets a dire repulsive shock;
Like ocean's surge, to bubbles dash'd
Against the stubborn flinty rock!

IV.

Darius, quite impatient grown,
Impetuous, led his army on,
In glitt'ring arms of gold;
Far follow'd a protracted train,
Which 'lumined round all Issus' plain,
As they to battle roll'd:

Their gorgeous show and ardent mien
Might shake the coward's heart,
But Macedonia's sons, I ween,
Fear'd not their glare nor art.

Now, van to van, the signal given,
As gleams the fatal light of heaven,
So darts the flash of arms!
As thunder 'mong the hills doth rattle,
So rung the clangour of the battle,
And echo's ear alarms!

In clouds th' volleying javelins fly,
And grate on helm and shield,
And oft, death-fraught, make heroes lie
Upon the blood-stain'd field.

Dire was the conflict of the day,
Till Persia's hope-flush'd front gave way,
And back in haste recoil'd;
Then rose aloud the Grecian shout,
“They fly! they fly! they're put to rout!
Their utmost effort 's foil'd.”

Hark! hark! the hideous jarring roar
Which runs throughout the host;
The shrieks of thousands, bathed in gore,
On point of sabres toss'd!

324

Poor Persia's monarch push'd along
Throughout the terror-smitten throng,
Unmindful of their fate;
To Ecbatana safe he fled,
While for his cause an army bled—
Heart-thrilling to relate!

A sumptuous spoil lies now exposed
At Alexander's will;
Such riches never Greece disclosed,
The envious breast to fill.

But, mark! the mild Pellean youth
Here stray'd not from the path of truth,
Nor brake stern virtue's law;
By no unruly passion driven,
He acted as if conscious heaven
His conduct's chart did draw:

And had he still this path pursued
Through all his after life,
With glory had his steps been strew'd,
And shunn'd much toil and strife.

The captive ladies, pale with fear,
Heaved many a sigh, dropp'd many a tear,
For this, their hapless lot;
But, when the conq'ror's conduct shone
With chaste protection, all anon
The dread of harm forgot.

V.

The combat's o'er at set of sun,
And now, the night's cold air to shun,
The weary Greeks retire to tent,
After a day in bloodshed spent.
Now murky night o'erspreads the plain,
Where wounded lie among the slain;
Across the field wild groans are driven
Within the bleaky blast of heaven;
Half dead half living many lie,
Who heave the deep unheeded sigh,
And writhe beneath the rankling smart
Of death's chill dagger in their heart!

325

VI.

The full-orb'd moon rose in the east,
And shone with golden gleam;
The wolf, voracious, hied to feast
Beneath her flaunting beam;
Red glared the field in Luna's light,
And show'd a drear heart-rending sight;
Harsh, o'er the plain, the live-long night
Was heard the vulture's scream!

Soft Pity saw th' inhuman scene,
And buried the ill-fated slain;
Yet roves the wild hyena, growling,
Among the trenches nightly prowling;
And bloody wolf, carniv'rous rover,
Likes o'er the gory field to hover.

VII.

Return, return! oh potent sun!
And bring sweet spring again
To clothe with grass the plain,
That swains the sight of blood may shun.

I know yet o'er the fallen brave
The rank green grass shall gaily wave;
That flowers shall deck the verdant mead,
Where many a daring heart did bleed;
That lambs shall frisk upon the mound
That wraps the mould'ring heroes round;
And, where once rung the battle-swell,
In peace, the husbandman shall dwell.

VIII.

No more, sweet Muse, o'er Asian shores
With thee I long to wander;
Great Persia now, and all her stores,
Belong to Alexander.

I envy not such hard-earn'd treasure,
Nor yet to forfeit life for pleasure;
But grant me Peace, and I'll consent
With Poverty to live content.
Let kings for crowns, indignant, war;
Let merchants search for wealth afar;

326

Let statesmen wrangle and debate;
Give titles to the rich and great;
For me, no other boon I crave,
While I on earth a being have,
But freedom from internal strife—
A competence to keep in life,—
The rest I have from nature free,
Else, Fancy, they belong to thee;
Thy roamings, amidst daily toil,
Can summer's longest day beguile:
Can, while the sun doth vertic beam,
Me stretch beside the cooling stream;
Or, while the world lies clad in snow,
Recall can July's genial glow;
Can change the harsh ear-grating drum
To nurse's sleep-invoking hum;
The thunder rolling through the sky
Sweet as the infant's lullaby!

Let envy throw her barbed shafts,
To gain the field of fame,
Give me but fancy's halcyon draughts,
Though none should know my name.

Elegy

ON THE DEATH OF THE REV. W. CREIGHTON.

Loud howl'd the wind, dark hung the sable cloud
O'er Sol's bright face, like midnight's ebon shroud,
While he, far south, in Sagittarius reigns,
And drops his rays on Afric's sultry plains.

Chill crystal icicles hung on the trees;
Wild rung the hail, borne by the boreal breeze;
The river, buried, was not seen to flow,
Immured by crusting ice and smoth'ring snow.

When thus stern winter raged throughout the isle,
And ruthlessly 'gainst mortals warr'd the while,
Relentless fate did throw his death-fraught dart,
And struck bright virtue's champion to the heart.

327

He's gone! his spirit wings her flight on high,
Swift, through the stellar orbs that gem the sky,
And prostrate falls before the throne above,
Prelusive to her endless song of love.

O happy change to her! no more to know
The strong assaults of earth's malignant foe;
And there to join the grand angelic choir,
Who touch, with hand sublime, the golden lyre!

Ah me! keen anguish fills my bursting heart,
With such a benefactor now to part;
To see him laid in earth's damp gelid urn,
Thence, till time's latest day, ne'er to return.

And there he lies, the friend of God and man,
Who squared his life by the Almighty's plan;
Subdued each vice, each virtue did improve;
His groundwork, sure, was universal love.

His sage instructions, and his mien so mild,
Time's longest, dullest hours, have oft beguiled;
To guide oft-erring youth his greatest care,
To show them virtue's path, and keep them there.

Grieved was Elisha for his master, torn
From earth, though heavenward in a chariot borne;
And grieved was I to see my guardian's head
Interr'd within the chamber of the dead.

What though no cloister'd shrine surround his tomb,
Sweet shall he rest until the day of doom!
Round which remembrance oft shall pensive sigh,
While tears conglobe her retrospective eye.

Here does he lie! wrapp'd in a heavenly sleep,
For whom the virtuous and the learned weep;
Warmer remember'd than the hero great
Who, in Westminster Abbey, lies in state.

And when the trump of doom shall loudly ring,
To judgment an assembled world to bring,
He'll rise to share the glorious interview,
Where, of the great on earth, will be but few.

328

Elegy ON THE LATE J. F. SURGEON.

Wow! wha frae death will guard us now?
Our warden's fa'n, sae stainch and true!
Matches like him death met but few—
I'd maist said nane;
To health we a' may bid adieu,
Since Jamie's gane.

Kilbride his death may mourn for ever;
Kilbride his peer may look for never;
He's wafted o'er that fatal river,
Recrossed by nane;
And wha frae death will us deliver,
Since Jamie's gane?

His worth is a' the clachan's crack;
We wish, but canna bring him back;
We've roopit Robin's shop o' black,
Oursel's to cleed;
Nae consolation can we tak',
Since Jamie's dead.

He was weel liked ilka where
For healin' heads when they were sair;
The middle ward o' Lanarkshire
May loudly maen;
His peregal she'll meet nae mair!
Och! Jamie's gane!

Lament him, O ye mithers a',
Wha aften for the howdie ca';
Your tears he banish'd far awa
In time o' pain;
His like auld Scotlan' never saw;
But now he's gane.

Mair skill in's single pow there lay
Than a' the Glasgow faculty,
Wha ance wad pierced for dropsy
A wife wi' wean,
Whase time was tauld, even to a day,
By Jamie gane.

329

Wi' whittles Jamie ne'er was rash,
Our legs and arms to cut and slash;
Nor yet wi' vomits, and sic trash,
To gar us graen;
Now we maun thole ilk gamrell hash,
Since Jamie's gane.

Saturday in Glasgow.

Wide through the cloudless lift o' blue
The twilight bright advances,
Till owre the Shotts knowes, wet wi' dew,
The sun effulgent glances:
The mountains' streams, gilt wi' his beams,
Like silver, twinkle clear;
The birds o' sang, the woods amang,
Salute the tunefu' ear
Fu' sweet this morn.

On this fair scene the Muse, in pain,
Throws back an e'e o' pity,
As down the brae I bouncin' ga'e
To view famed Glasgow city;
Whare mist and reek, wi' darksome smeek,
Defy the solar blaze;
Whase inmates pale may sair bewail
The absence o' his rays
Sae aft by day.

Frae a' the airts the sour milk carts,
Bot custom or embargo,
Reel fast and thrang the roads alang,
Fraught wi' their sinfu' cargo;
While mony a mouth, sair parch'd wi' drouth,
Is waitin' their arrival,
That late yestreen had whisky'd been,
And's needin' a revival
O' health this day.

330

Now mony a stiff and spavet horse
Toils 'neath the great coal-waggon,
Urged to exert its utmost force,
Through terror o' a flaggin';
While some, mair skeich, wi' head fu' heich,
Are prancin' trim and trig,
As at their heels bright glancin' reels
The coach, landau, or gig,
Superb this day.

The barracks' drum, wi' thund'rin' din,
Swells through her echoin' regions,
And to parade, rude, swearin', rin
Her boist'rous vassal legions:
Now down the street, to music sweet,
Straucht for the Green they're airtin',
While schule-weans, keen to please their een,
Are frae their beuks desertin'
In droves this day:

Wi' gleamin' steel, wide owre the fiel',
The weel-train'd ranks are spreadin';
While awkward squads, without cockades,
Wi' ill-timed pace are treadin':
Here, washerwives, wi' ban'less tongues,
'Mang freathin' graith are splashin';
There, servant lasses, stark and young,
The stour frae carpets dashin',
Like reek, this day.

Mark yon black gang, that daily thrang
Beside the jail, their hame,
Wi' visage din, japann'd wi' sin,
And void o' fear and shame!
While owre ilk motion, gleg as fire,
The police lads are watchin',
And, as light-finger'd deeds transpire,
Most dext'rously they're catchin'
Ilk blade this day.

Now troopin' to the warehouse, thrang
The wabsters skeichly bicker,
Some hopin' tap-room mirth ere lang,
While some are far mair sicker;

331

The men, victorious, on the van,
'Neath national burdens groanin';
The wives are tempted maist to ban,
While dearth o' tea bemoanin'
Right sair are they.

Hech! what a het'rogeneous scene,
Wi' business and wi' folly;
Some 'neath misfortune's burden grain,
While ithers rant fu' jolly.
Here skulks a chiel o' noble soul,
Wi' empty pouches pinin',
There struts a weel-clad jobbernowl,
Wha is on sirloins dinin'
Profuse ilk day.

Wi' bloomin' cheek, and manners meek,
Now lovely maids are seen
Neist tawdry bawds, the glaikit jades,
Wi' drumlie lustfu' een.
'Neath pond'rous burdens porters grain,
And sweat through stark oppression,
While stout gigantic tailors vain
Dose at their slim profession,
In ease, this day.

Now scavengers, wi' clawts and brooms,
The streets are trimmin' tightly,
Whare sights less fair than fiel'-pea blooms
Are there deposed nightly.
The barbers glib, wi' razors keen,
Are beards and whiskers mawin';
And fill their fabs wi' cash fu' bien,
Though blood they're aften drawin'
Frae plouks this day.

Hark! the wild skraich o' fishwives' snell
Rings echoin' up the closses;
And auctioneers, wi' wit right fell,
Joke owre the dyvours' losses.
Here fiddlers strike the dulcet strings,
By gapin' crowds surrounded,
And there a sair-maim'd sailor sings
How he in war was wounded,
Right loud, this day.

332

On this han' moves the solemn hearse
And sable-clad procession,
Whare gloom, beyond the power o' verse
To paint, hold full possession;
On that a chaise like lightning flies,
Scarce frae tap-gallop stoppin',
Whase inmates, bound in love's soft ties,
To Gretna-Green elopin'
Are, fast, this day.

Wi' weavers and tambourers, thrang
The warehouse lobby's fillin',
Wha shore to leave the Corks ere lang,
Wi' scarce a single shillin'.
Some ware their mite wi' muckle mense,
'Gaint neist week's wants providin';
While ithers, void o' savin' sense,
Are State affairs decidin'
Owre th' ale this day.

Thrang, thrang the taproom boxes grow;
Ilk core for news is ca'in';
Some greedily a speldin' chow,
Some cut-and-dry are blawin';
On argument some enter keen,
And mark state errors primely;
And some, to physic aff the spleen,
Swill down the drink, sublimely,
In pints this day.

Hence starved and ragged wives and weans,
In want's drear hovels pinin',
While husbands are, wi' frantic brains,
In alehouse senates shinin':
Whare, spendin' cash, they drink and clash,
And Britain's weelfare plan;
Till speechless gabs and empty fabs
Break up the doilt divan,
When drunk are they.

Waesucks! for Britain's frail state bark,
That aft to leeward veers,
Were she to ride the tempest dark
Mann'd by sic timoniers:

333

Though wi' misconduct aft her crew
Ha'e been severely branded,
Yet han's like thir, fu' weel I trow,
Had her completely stranded
Lang ere this day.

The New Street like a beeskep bungs
In riot-like condition,
Whare butchers, wi' unhallow'd tongues,
For profit risk perdition:
Here ladies, wi' mercantile air,
Amang the stands are clav'rin',
While servants' faces plain declare,
They inly curse their hav'rin',
Sae vain, this day.

Here struts a flunky, liv'ry-clad,
Fraught wi' a noble roast;
There flytes a souter's wife, half mad,
Anent a sheep's pluck's cost:
Some wauchle hame wi' sirloins fat
In baskets on their hainches,
While ithers cater for the pat
Guid fresh cow-heel, or painches
Fu' clean, this day.

This day the Briggate hand-me-downs
Cleed mony strange riffrandies;
Poor, naked, scawt Hibernian louns
Come forth equipp'd like dandies;
Wi' backs to braid-claith strangers quite,
And hurdies to hale trews,
Nae wonder that they feel delight
When struttin in surtouts,
Right spree, this day.

Here too the kail-pat shops, sae bien,
Are in a perfect bustle,
Whare lab'rin' chaps, wi' stomachs keen,
For service strive and justle;
For soup and kail, and beef and ale,
A' airts at ance they're cryin',
While lasses rin, amidst the din,
To stop their mouths, a' fryin'
Wi' heat this day.

334

Wersh waefu' gear he gets, wha here
Dines when the pats are eekit;
Sma' toil will he ha'e pith to dree—
Experience weel can speak it:
Half-hunger'd drabs, wi' tasteless gabs,
Amang sic graith may slabber;
To me a treat, before sic meat,
Beer-scones and bonny-clabber
Would be ilk day.

Mark poverty, in countless forms,
Frae door to door slow creepin';
Sae toss'd by bitter fortune's storms,
Nae wonder that she's weepin'.
Some listen to her waefu' tale,
And cheer her abject face;
Some, haughty and unfeelin', rail,
Unmindfu' o' her case,
Sae sad, this day.

Around the Poors' House, age and want
United, thrang are must'rin';
Their bodies frail, and faces gaunt,
Might quell youth's vogie blust'rin':
Hail! ye, o' heaven-expanded heart,
Wha plann'd this institution,
And sae judiciously impart,
Wi' weekly distribution,
Supply this day.

Fast frae his heicht the sultry sun
Down western skies is slidin',
While some for health, and some for fun,
On Clyde steam-boats are glidin':
Here tars, wi' faces black as sweeps',
Toil at the block and tackle;
And there the sharp tidewaiter keeps
Accounts o' rum and treacle,
Fu' sly, this day.

Blithe commerce here hauds a' a-steer,
To beet the back and wame,
And lets us pree the gusty bree
O' foreign lands at hame;

335

Here moors, weel stow'd, the herrin' yawl,
Graced wi' a guid sprit cable,
'Langside o' whilk the fishwives brawl
As a' the tongues o' Babel
Were lowsed this day.

Fu' mony a bing o' cod and ling
Lies here for sale right handy;
And barrels big, to let us swig
Dutch gin and fell French brandy:
A' kinds o' food, and drink, and drugs,
To fatten and to clean ye,
Ye'll get, that grow—I'll lay my lugs—
'Tween Ailsa Craig and China,
In rowth, ilk day.

Now nicht throws east her dusky wing,
To rouse the thievish varlets,
And thrang frae a' the closses spring
Great troops o' lustfu' harlots;
Some, late enlisted in the trade,
Show beauty's fadin' roses;
While ithers, lang in lech'ry bred,
Display sair flatten'd noses,
At the lamps, this nicht.

But here the Muse maun draw the screen,
For she recoils wi' scunner:
To paint the brothel's scenes obscene
Would gar e'en Pagans won'er!
Here, revelling till morning dawn
In odious dissipation,
They break the fetters o' comman',
And laugh at stark damnation
Baith nicht and day.

In allusion to the farm servants—for pocket-money, not always spent by them in the most sober way—occasionally watering the milk on their way to the city.

Address to Line Water.

Dear stream, upon thy banks sae green
I pass'd my infant years away,
A sportive boy, wi' glancin' een,
And flaxen ringlets wavin' gay.

336

To gather pebbles purely white,
That in thy crystal waves did shine,
I aften waded wi' delight
Amang thy purlin' fords, O Line.

Then was unknown the frown o' care,
Then all was glad wi' pleasure's smile,
Then was not laid sly vice's snare,
For then it could not me beguile:
Day after day sped lightly on,
While but the present I did min',
And nought but Eden-bliss was known
By me, upon the banks o' Line.

But human pleasures vanish fast
As morn's faint dawnin' frae the skies,
When bright the blazin' sun at last
Doth owre the gilt horizon rise;
And fair my morning's magic dawn
Awoke, foreshowin' no decline,
Till time display'd th' enchantin' lawn,
Delusive all, when far frae Line.

Half mix'd wi' pleasure and wi' woe,
Sensations strange my bosom burn,
When retrospection back doth throw
A look on joys ne'er to return.
Anticipation nought can spy
To equal those sweet days divine,
When, 'neath the summer evenin' sky,
I gambol'd on the banks o' Line.

Ah! who can tell whence springs in man
This veneration for the place
Where time to him her march began;
A love which nothing can efface?
Ah, none! but yet I feel the power
Around my heart the bands entwine,
Which shall, till life's last dreary hour,
Make dear to me thy banks, O Line.

What though less deck'd wi' cooling shades
Of birks and aspens by thee waving?
What though the murmuring cascades
Be few, thy brink wi' eddies laving?

337

Yet dearer far than woods and rocks,
Where grandeur rude and gloom combine,
Are thy green mounds, where bleating flocks
Browse on thy lovely banks, O Line.

Could reason hope to find that joy
Which youth once felt serenely pure?
While I, an ambling harmless boy,
Roam'd artless wi' the fisher's lure!
To gain that pleasure, now all fled,
Each other aim I would resign;
And, roused to transport, fondly tread
Thy sweet, but distant banks, O Line.

But no glad prospect opens bright
To gild sad sorrow's frowning gloom;
All seems a dark and dreary night,
And ended by the lonely tomb.
Still, while I tread the sterile ground,
I'll muse on joys I felt langsyne,
Which youth, ere known to care, hath found
Upon thy verdant banks, O Line.

Robert Goscar, a shoemaker, at that time in the employment of the author's father, in West Linton, Peebles-shire.

An Address to Calder Water.

Hail, stream! by whose romantic side
The care-dispelling muse
First pour'd the rapture-raising tide
Of pleasure so profuse!
To me thy banks are ever gay,
At sober eve or rising day;
Whether the gladsome smile of spring
Excite the tuneful train to sing—
Or summer deck the cooling bowers
With sweetly simple woodland flowers—
Or autumn blight with yellow hue
Thy verdant shades, so fair to view—
Or winter, howling through the air,
Wild, from thy trees the foliage tear:

338

For still with thee I friendship claim;
A friendship warm—sublime;
Remote from pride, remote from fame,
Where pleasure's harp doth chime!

Ofttimes, among thy birken shades,
In pensive musing mood,
Or on thy primrose-tinted glades,
I've roam'd in solitude.
While fancy's scenes I stray'd among,
Melodious flow'd the blackbird's song;
And, faintly falling on the ear,
Was heard the linn, of cadence drear;
And Phœbus, beaming on the rocks,
Display'd their loosely-waving locks
Of ivy, brier, birk, and broom,
Of pleasant scent and beauteous bloom,
Where sweetly humm'd the honey-bee,
Unheard, unseen, to all but me,
Who there would pass the moments fleet,
Till, through the waving trees,
At Sol's decline, soft zephyr, sweet,
Would pour the fanning breeze.

Soft swelling, 'mong the echoing rocks,
At ruddy, beaming morn,
In pursuit of the robber fox,
The huntsman blows the horn;
While, loud, the clam'rous noise of hounds
Among the woods and rocks resounds.
Sly reynard tries, with every guile,
The murd'rers from his path to wile;
Oft in thy streams, to kill the track,
He treads, to cheat the fatal pack,
Who, yelling, scent; but all in vain;
No tainted air thy fords retain;
While he, far on the upland heath,
By thee rescued, escapes from death:
But, like the felon freed from jail,
With nature unsubdued,
He makes the shepherd sore bewail
His plund'ring deeds renew'd.

339

Far dearer themes the muse can spy,
In lovely hues pourtray'd—
The lovers, warm with beaming eye,
Beneath the birken shade;
There, breathing soft the mutual flame,
Devoid of every vicious aim,
While all the mystic charms of feeling
Across their raptured souls are stealing,
And cheerful hope's propitious smile
Down life's long vista beams the while.
Long may such lovely scenes pervade
Thy every meadow, grove, and glade,
From where thou leav'st the bleak muir side
Down to the fertile banks of Clyde.
Hail, Calder! ever dear to me,
As on thy banks I stray,
Still roams the muse, in ecstasy,
On boundless wing, away!

An Address to the Mains Castle.

Auld, lanely, dull, and eldritch tower,
Thou lang wi' time hast warsled dour,
And tholed the pith o' mony a shower,
Rain, hail, and snaw:
Far distant be the destined hour
Whan thou maun fa'.

Disjeskit, like some faithless Jew,
Thy ha's are visited by few,
Except the howlet and the dow,
Wha haunt thy wa's;
Or thy black correspondin' yew,
The bield o' craws.

To after times thou handest doun
The tricks o' vile Dunrode, the loon!
Wha fley'd the kintra roun' and roun'
Wi' cruel deeds;
By him, some 'neath the ice did drown,
Some tint their heads.

340

And thou can witness bear thysel'
That aft, within thy gloomy cell,
Forth issues mony an irksome yell
Frae restless spectres,
Wha in your eerie chaumers dwell,
And haud their lectures.

Whan winter frae the stormy wast
Drives o'er the plains the roarin' blast,
And clouds the yellow moon o'ercast,
Then, in thy biggin,
The whoop and yell o' ghaists ring fast
Frae floor to riggin'.

Aft roun' thy wa's the fairies meet,
And haud their balls, to music sweet:
They bob and wheel, wi' motion fleet,
Till Crawford granes;
Syne aff they scour, wi' lichtsome feet,
Across the plains.

And nightly, in thy murky cell,
Grim Hecate, wi' her hags o' hell,
Wi' gruesome charm and cantrip spell,
Stirs Dunrode up,
To drink the sour ingredients fell
O' their cursed cup.

I see the tortured monster stan',
Wi' the black bicker in his han',
Obedient to their stern comman',
Scour aff his potion,
While roun' him laughs the wrunkled ban',
Wi' de'il devotion.

Ilk gruesome grub and reptile vile
That shelters in auld Scotland's isle
In scunnersome hotch-potch they boil,
To feast the villain!
Whilk brings to min' his acts o' guile
Done in this dwellin'.

The ghaists o' them he wrang'd before
Rehearse his wicked tricks o' yore;

341

Wi' horror sweatin' at ilk pore
Hell's fire he feels;
Till, breinge, the broom-staves o' the core
Upon him reels.

“Swith!” loud they cry, wi' eerie skirl,
And aff to Styx the skellum whirl;
Syne Hecate on the roof doth dirl,
Wi' 'chantress'-wan',
And, quick, at her conjurin' tirl,
They flee aff-han'.

Thus pass the dreary nights away
Of mony a dull and cheerless day
Within thy caverns cauld and grey,
Till echo rings,
Roused by the cock's shrill morning lay,
When twilight springs.

In feudal pride, frae aff thy wa'
A score o' his ain pleughs he saw,
Drawn by his milk-white horses braw,
On his ain lawn;
And yet, watreck, he met his fa'
Frae his ain han'.

Cursed by the laws o' God and man,
Frae ill to waur the tyrant ran,
Till Ruin's fell Herculean han',
Past a' remead,
Low laid him, ghastly, pale, and wan,
Amang the dead!

For, ere he bade the yirth fareweel,
The wretch had neither hame nor biel',
But died, like ony beggar chiel',
For fau't o' meat;
Syne slippit to his frien' the de'il—
Oh, vile retreat!

And now, auld venerable ruin,
Keen winter's sleety blasts are brewin',
Wha, gut and ga' indignant spewin',
May blaw thee owre,
A rubbish heap, through days ensuin',
'Neath Time's grim power.

342

An Address to the Kirktoun Pharisees.

Hech, sirs! how lang will discord rule ye?
And Satan, wi' his wiles, befool ye?
Wha keeps ye in malignant broolyie
O' girnin' ire;
And, whan he does your comfort spoolyie,
Legs aff like fire.

“Was e'er in Scotlan' heard or seen,”
'Twixt Johnnie Groats and Gretna Green,
Sic hatred fell, and bitin' spleen,
In ony flock?
The tear stan's in religion's een
At sic a shock.

Ne'er, since the days o' Johnnie Knox,
Wha rear'd our temple orthodox,
Were sic unchristian jeers and mocks
Gi'en ane anither;
Some swear “their zeal is a' a hoax
O' pride thegither.”

Ilk sheep that feeds by glen or hill,
'Tween Logoch-moor and Nerston-mill,
Lament that death, wi' dagger chill,
Your herd has slain!
Wha fed you aye wi' care and skill;
But now he's gane!

For never wad he let you stray
Amang the mires o' heresy,
Whare some Socinian sharp craw-tae
Might lie unseen;
But aye on Calvin's sunny brae
O' pasture green.

Nae tod nor corbie e'er durst venture
Within your bught or fauld to enter;
Ilk silly ewe he'd cannie tent her,
For fear o' skaith,
Or snugly in some out-house pent her,
To draw her breath.

343

But now, alake! on ilka brae
We hear scaith'd ewies sairly mae,
Wha've fawn to lawless tups a prey—
Brutes void o' conscience;
Sair will they rue the luckless day
They wroucht sic nonsense.

Your neist new herd your kail will cool,
Because ye thus ha'e play'd the fool;
He'll perch ye on the creepie-stool,
That seat o' fame,
To whinge and sab, and cry, oh dool!
And sweat wi' shame.

And waesocks! now, for M---e L---ke,
How will she stan' this fatal shock?
Ye've torn the rowan aff her rock,
Wi' stainchless greed;
Ye've gi'en her trade a deadly stroke,
And spoil'd her bread.

I doubt, my frien's, your clishmaclaver
'Bout extra zeal is a' a haver,
For mony a rude and drunken shaver
Has join'd your clan;
A slower pace and visage graver
Ne'er saint a man.

Whaever thinks a lengthen'd face
Is a ne'er-failin' sign o' grace,
Will some day sairly turn the chase
Upon their creed;
'Tis fools that do this test embrace—
Ay! fools indeed.

Nae mair, in warmth o' holy zeal,
Ye fervent pray for ithers' weal,
Or Charity's thick mantle sweel
About their failin's;
But trumpet, loud as ye can squeel,
Their knavish dealin's.

I fear your sanctimonious faces,
Your whinings grave, at burial graces,

344

Your wild, devotional grimaces,
And eldritch gesture,
Were but the quirks o' hell's sly preses,
Your lang-served maister.

Hypocrisy! thou arrant rogue,
Why thus molest our synagogue?
Why, serpent-like, thus lie incog.
Your frien's to slay?
Avaunt! thou impious demagogue,
Fast! fast away!

O Justice, man! come back amang us,
And clout the loons wha sairly wrang us;
For grim extortion will o'ergang us—
Sae will ambition;
And waukit conscience tint its stang has,
And's near perdition.

Ye auld bell-wathers, grave and sage,
Sworn faes, till death, 'gainst patronage,
Be hoolie! lest your holy rage
Create a split;
Your conduct something doth presage
That's extra yet.

And if ye disunite the core,
Fareweel to freedom evermore!
Ye'll sweat, in wrath, at every pore,
And curse the day
That frae your guid auld mither's door
Ye went astray.

Fu' weel I ken ye'd ne'er rebel,
Nor, girnin', shaw your rancour fell
'Gainst patronage; gif ye yoursel'
But ruled the roast,
Ye'd turn the spate, baith snack and snell,
At ithers' cost.

O conscience, had ye but a hearin',
Ye'd gi'e thae pawkie loons a clearin',
Wha murgon us wi' gibin', jeerin',
And gar us greet;
Their Janus-faces wad appear then
A vile black leet.

345

Syne wad we ken what wiles and quirks,
What queer intrigues, and faulds and lirks,
Are used by them wha rule the kirks,
To raise their fame;
And how they wield black scandal's dirks,
And vice declaim.

For a' your fervent clubs o' prayer,
At whilk ye aft did rout and rair,
The soun' is hush'd for evermair
Out o' this place;
Oh, worthy frien's, I doubt it sair,
Your fawn frae grace.

Sin' Robin Aiton's worthy head
Was laid amang the silent dead,
The tempter, wi' malignant feid,
Has won amang ye,
And garr'd ye rive in rags your creed—
And, trugs, he'll bang ye!

Nae mair the tailor's zealous face
Presides within the holy place;
The change is great—alase! alase!
We see him now,
In drunken meetings, next the brace,
Aft spewin' fu'.

And mony ithers, I am tauld,
Wha o' their gifts were crouse and bauld,
Hae turn'd out, now, luke-warm—yea, cauld
As boards o' ice;
Sae fares our nei'bour gospel fauld,
By Nick's device.

But, guidsake, sirs! repair this skaith,
Before that ye resign your breath;
For, gin stern fate ance gi'e his aith,
He'll no draw back;
Repentance that's delay'd till death
'S no worth a plack.

346

Lynda and Dormac of Cassimere.

At Achnagar, on Indus' strand,
The paradise of India's land,
Dwelt Lynda, pride of all the plain,
Who vice did treat still with disdain;
For her full many a heart did sigh,
For her was moisten'd many an eye;
And many tales of love she heard,
And was the theme of many a bard;
Yet unavailing all was still,
For reason sway'd her pliant will.
On her the sun ne'er vertic shone;
She ne'er traversed the torrid zone;
From home no farther she'd appear
Than the clear lake of Cassimere;
Or hills which Cabul do surround,
To mark the roving Tartars' bound.

In rich palanquin would she ride,
With eastern pomp, without its pride;
Or lonely by the river rove,
And list the music of the grove:
She to religion did incline,
While that with mercy would combine;
But rites contained in Brahma's code
She thought offended nature's God.

If e'er on earth was beauty's queen,
Young Lynda was the same, I ween,
And the great boast of Cyprus' isle
Had disappear'd in Lynda's smile.
The Grecian bards had changed their theme,
Had they beheld this nymph supreme.

The fame of Lynda swiftly spread,
Which to her many lovers led;
'Mong whom did to her mansion steer
Young Dormac, Prince of Cassimere;
Charm'd by her captivating grace,
He thought her scarce of mortal race.
She night and day was in his mind;
In nothing could he pleasure find,

347

Save in the company of her
Whom he did to all earth prefer.
'Mong India's beauties found he none
He could admire but her alone;
And oft in transport he'd extol
This only darling of his soul.
He sued that she would be his wife,
For with her was his joy in life;
Placed all his riches in her power,
Which heaven abundantly did shower;
So, after many a fond essay,
They set the pompous nuptial day.

“Oh, well-away! sweet Lynda cried,
Could not young Dormac be denied?
Ah, no! the potent god of love
Can every obstacle remove.
Methinks I could, without a sigh,
Hear the grave Bramin's deathless tie;
And, should my Dormac first expire,
I'd mount for him the fatal pyre,
And thus would I resign my breath
With him whom I do love to death.”

The day arrived, and Dormac came
His greatest earthly bliss to claim,
In all the glow of eastern grandeur,
Of Soubah-pride and garnish'd splendour;
With stately elephants, array'd
In golden tissue, rich display'd;
And Lynda left her sire's abode,
And with her Dormac homeward rode,
In all the flush of nuptial joy,
Devoid of mixture or alloy.
But wild revenge did rudely rave
In Vender's bosom, of Devave,
Whose love, rejected, turn'd to hate,
And seal'd the lovers' bloody fate.
A Tartar leader he had been,
Who many foughten fields had seen;
But insurrection made him leave
Parch'd Eskerdu for green Devave:
There heard he of gay Lynda's fame,
And off in suit of her he came,

348

Who loathed his rude unpolish'd look,
And still his company forsook.

He hired a band of ruffians vile,
Who traced the marriage route the while,
Till it arrived at Cassimere,
And enter'd Dormac's castle there,
Whence rang the sound of festival,
Both night and day, within the hall;
Such mirth as hotter blew the fire
Of Vender's breast, deep fraught with ire:
For he ere long did strike the blow
Which turn'd this joy to deepest woe.

One day this lovely pair did rove
Within the fragrant cooling grove,
Beside the clear unruffled lake,
And, sweet, of mutual love they spake:
But Vender, with his ruthless band,
Did lie in ambush nigh at hand,
Who rush'd upon the hapless pair,
And instantly did slay them there.
No pity did the caitiff show,
For Vender pity never knew,
Else had mild Lynda's angel face
Deterr'd him from his purpose base.
He sank their bodies in the lake,
And did himself to flight betake.
The servants all in Dormac's dome
Did weary for their coming home:
The night arrived, but came not they;
The sun arose with radiant ray,
But Dormac, with his Lynda sweet,
Return'd no more, their friends to greet.
The wood was search'd all round and round,
But the fond pair could not be found:
Hence goes this tale through Cassimere,
That they were tired of staying here,
And had fled up into the air,
To dwell along with Bramah there.

349

LAMENT On the Dearth of Tobacco.

Frien's o' the spleuchan and the mull,
Come, let us join, wi' true good-will,
To forward a Tobacco Bill
To Parliament;
Nor cease to pray and flyte, until
Some aid be sent.

Guid-guide's! was e'er the like o't heard?
Frae that sma' weed to be debarr'd!
Is this the promised great reward
They shored us lang,
Wha did them and their country guard
Frae en'mies strang?

Awa'! we winna be content
Till they've done something thereanent:
For instance, ta'en three-score per cent.
Aff our Tobacco:
That wad be news 'tween this and Lent
For folk to crack o'!

Drinkers may mourn the dearth o' maut,
And curers grudge the price o' saut,
And miser's dread they'll die for faut,
Wi' ruefu' face;
But mulls and spleuchans toom to claut
'S a sadder case.

Wow, sirs! it pains the heart indeed
To be deprived o' what we need:
Oh! had that dear Virginian weed
Ne'er cross'd the waves!
But what sair words? since we're decreed
To be its slaves.

Scarce dare ane tak' a pinch o' snuff,
Or, wi' a lichted pipe, play fuff,
Beside a jug o' reamin' stuff,
In taprooms snug,
Lest famine for a fortnight cuff
Our sairest lug.

350

O Ministers o' our frail state,
Whase word can stamp the bill o' fate,
Nae langer wrangle and debate,
Wi' logic skill,
Else we maun starve, “nae distant date,”
Wha toom the mull!

Nae doubt but cash ye sairly need;
But letna greenin' turn to greed;
Weel we supported that sad feid
Ye had wi' France,
By whilk ye've led us a' indeed
A bonnie dance.

The waes o' war we lang did mourn,
And pray'd that peace might soon return;
But, och! in famine's dreary urn
Her blessings lie,
And hafflins we the favour spurn,
Wi' grieved sigh.

Owre ruin's deep abyss ye hover:
Retrench, retrench! or, faith, ye're over!
Ilk placeman snib, that wons 'tween Dover
And Johnnie Groats;
Likewise Clan-W---fe, frae poor Hanover,
Might wear waur coats.

Syne might cash in our pouches jingle,
And ilka nerve wi' pleasure tingle,
And folk in social pleasure mingle,
To break a joke,
While seated round the bleezin' ingle,
To tak' their smoke.

But, leezanee! I greatly doubt
This change will never come about:
Our statesmen may baith darn and clout
The constitution,
Yet rapid comes, beyond dispute,
Its dissolution.

The curse o' debt hings owre the nation,
Beyond the power o' liquation:

351

A thousand millions! what taxation
Could stap its gab?
Item—a sultan-coronation,
To fleece our fab!

Oh war! thou offspring of the devil,
And source o' mony a waefu' evil,
Whether thou foreign be or civil,
Want's in thy train;
Hence dear Tobacco will us grieve still—
A matchless bane.

Whi'sonmonday.

Whan summer's e'e beams o'er the lea,
To cleed the fields wi' green,
And blithesome lambs frisk roun' their dams,
Whilk charms the shepherds' een;
As blithe and thrang as youngsters spang
To a Communion Sunday,
The kintra roun' swear care to drown,
By haudin' Whi'sonmonday,
Fu' brisk and gay.

Scarce had the laverocks tuned their throats,
To hail the risin' sun,
Whan owre the fields, wi' kilted coats,
The lasses had begun
To airt straucht aff to Glasgow-town,
Their trysted joes to see;
Or buy a braw new cap or gown,
Wi' the orras o' their fee,
Aff-hand that day.

But yonder comes the highlan'-clan!
Careerin' down the hill;
The tough-lung'd piper leads the van,
Wha thrums his chanter shrill;

352

At “owre the hills and far awa'”
He blaws wi' Gaelic fire,
Whilk raises in their bosoms a'
A hame-sent warm desire,
Wi' zeal that day.

Rude cowpers, wi' their livin' stock,
Alang the roads now scour,
While poor, less skeich, but better folk,
Maun toddle through the stour;
Yet thae maun ha'e, to quench their drouth,
Guid rum or sunkots better;
While thir get noucht, to weet their mouth,
But sma' swipes or sheuch water
On sic a day.

Forth comes a breinge o' kintra beaux,
Wi' siller graith a' glancin';
Thought erst broucht up 'mang rags and brose,
They're now on race-horse prancin';
Oh waefu' pride! thou's ill to bide;
Thou mak's fools sae uncivil,
They'll cry, “by G---, quick, clear the road,
Or else we'll to the devil
You ride this day.”

Ah, lads! though now ye are right spree,
In fortune's rays a-baskin',
Ye'll, aiblins, yet drink o' the bree
That ye ha'e lang been maskin';
Wi' wine and tea ye are richt bauld,
And toss your heads fu' vogie;
But yet, I fear, wi' puirtith cauld,
Your wonted parritch cogie
Ye'll claw some day.

Now mony a scowry prick-the-loop,
And ragged rowly-powly,
Flock to the fair, a mangled group,
Wi' broken legs and bowly:
Here Lucky Grant tak's up her stan',
The gangrel sweetie seller,
Though glib-tongued sisters, at ilkhan',
Are shorin' now, to bell her
At the trade this day.

353

Oh, waes my heart! for Straven John;
Whare now will he appear?
He may sab out, Ochon! ochon!
And drap a briny tear;
For sic outlandish skybalds now
Ha'e ta'en the dicin' trade,
I doubt he's ruin'd, stick and stow—
I fear his fortune's fled
For guid and a'.

But first let's stap to the wynd-head,
To see what's doin' there,
Whare knavery, wi' stainchless greed,
Are nursed wi' special care.
Heich, man! there stan's a bonnie show
O' coosers and o' yawds;
And oaths are rife as Ays and Noes
W' thir rough cowper lads
I' the fair this day.

Ane swears—“Before I sell 't for less
I wish I may be d---d:”
His frien', wha weel the price can guess,
Says—“Hoot! ye lang ha'e shamm'd:
Come, here's a maik: let's see your han':
I've gi'en the fairest bodds:”
The graceless wight lang does na' stan'
To cast awa' the odds,
Though pounds, this day.

Wi' lyin' here, and swearin' there,
The match o't ne'er was heard;
For siccan cheatin' Truth stan's greetin',
As if frae earth debarr'd:
Their language fell resembles hell,
By ought that we can learn;
Justice and conscience gang for nonsense,
Their sauls are sae forfain
And foul this day.

The outskirt o' the scene is fill'd
Wi' cattle clean worn out;
Far better had they a' been kill'd,
Than live to join the rout:

354

Their hides sae holed, they scarce dare face
The tanner's sharp inspection;
Nor will their meagre carcase grace
The kennel's rough dissection,
On ony day.

The horse-fair bye, straucht aff they hie
To see the raree-shows,
And doun the street they houp to meet
Their dear-lo'e'd trysted joes,
Wha through the toun ha'e ta'en their roun',
To glour at shawls and gowns,
For whilk they 'mang, and inward pang;
Their greenin' naething drowns
I' the shops this day.

Now ilka pair forgather'd are,
And to the auld-brig scour,
For mountebanks, wi' nimble shanks,
Are out, them to allure:
Their tinsy claise, a' glancin' clear,
Enchant the sordid heart;
Chaps stan' na here a crown to tear
Wha'd scarce a tester part
Frae the purse yon day.

“Eh! Rab,” quo' Maggie, “tak' us in
To see the spaewife horse;”
Robin, the revel to begin,
Fu' frankly draws his purse:
But Maggie, hapless lass! ne'er greins
To see a show sinsyne,
For powny tauld what—'mang the beans—
Ae nicht she chanced to tyne,
That luckless day.

Here, Master Punch his squeakin' powers
Displays, wi' eldritch face;
There, Tam o' Shanter's devil lours,
Wi' brimstone-burn'd grimace;
Here's lions, doun frae Lon'on tower,
Bears, elephants, and monkeys;
There's wheel-o'-fortune's lucky bags,
That fraught wi' slee begunk is,
At times, this day.

355

Oh sic a soun', a' roun' and roun'!
Drums, trumpets, clar'nets, fiddles,
And cymbals clank, our lugs to drown;
The tambourine it diddles:
The sun's low sinkin' in the wast,
Whilk marks the gloamin' near;
And baxter chiel's, their labour past,
Set a things in a steer,
In a blink, this nicht.

Their sport is mischief everywhere;
Nought else them fun affords;
Dead bawdrons flap throughout the fair;
Doun reel the sweetie boords:
A' order's turn'd to riot quick,
And feichten now is rife;
Weel wault is mony a hazle stick,
Enough to tak' a life
Ilk stroke, this nicht.

The kintra stirroks, fley'd o' skaith,
Frae this wanchancie crowd
Slip hameward wi' their lasses, laith
To thole their usage rude:
Ilk' chiel', fu' coshlie, wi' his dear,
Talks o' the day's fell feats;
As skelpin' up the hills they steer,
Their lo'esome heart aft beats,
Fu' thick, that nicht.

But nae sic topics can attract
The brawlers left ahin';
But neives aff heads and shoulders crack,
And glaur ilk e'e does blin':
The police lads daur scarce appear
To keep the toun in peace,
Their red-neck'd coats are useless here
To gar the brawlers cease
This roughsome nicht.

See, now the grand attack is made
Upon the caravans,
And open on the street are laid
Apes, sloths, and pelicans:

356

Ye'd think, to see this cage o' brutes,
By thir fell louns disseckit,
Whan, breingin wi' their claws and cloots,
That Noah's ark was wreckit
This luckless nicht.

Hech! guidsake, sirs! what jarrin' soun's
Frae ilka nook now come;
The cursin' o' mischievous loons
Maist breaks the lug's thin drum.
But darkness now pervades the lift,
And noucht mair can be seen;
So I, this tuilyie fierce to shift,
Will toddle up the Green,
Straucht hame, this nicht.

A well-known fair, held at Glasgow upon the first Monday after the 28th of May; or, if Monday fall on the 28th, on that day.

It is a lamentable truth, that the most indecorous behaviour is often exhibited upon country Sacramental occasions.

The Twalt' o' August.

Ye muirfowl wha did fernyear shun
The smedum o' the Sportman's gun,
For life's sake! cease, awhile, to won
Upon the heath;
Else, sprawling, bleedin', on the grun,
Ye'll meet your death.

The twalt' o' August now's come roun',
And, now! there is an unco soun'
O' pointers, fresh frae Glasgow toun,
Wi' noses gleg,
Wha'll snock ye out, baith up and down;
Sae, guidsake, leg!

Wi' birr, haste, lea' the uplan' fells;
Nae back-look cast on heather-bells;
But shelter in our howms and dells
'Mong cornfields snug;
Then they may range the muirs themsel's,
And claw their lug.

But, waesucks! nature has nae gi'en ye
Sic wiles as might frae danger screen ye;

357

And, though game-keepers aft befrien' ye
Frae poacher louns,
Their tyrant lords do sairly glean ye,
Wi' their platoons.

And there they come, devoid o' feelin',
In phaetons, chaises, coaches, reelin',
Wi' swarms o' flunkies, pechin', speelin'
The heather-braes;
While leesh-freed spaniels blithe are squeelin'—
Your deadly faes.

Deed, lads! ye are nae thrang at hame;
I wonder that ye think na shame
To rise sic steer, pursuin' game
Through muirs and mosses;
Sic deeds will never raise your fame
'Boon downricht asses.

E'en our auld crack-brain'd lustfu' knight,
Boost steer his course up to the heicht,
Resolved to won baith day and nicht,
In's house-like tent,
Though scarcely he, for want o' sicht,
Kens corn frae bent.

Nane e'er could libel you wi' wyte,
Gin 'twere to fill a hungry kite;
But, faith, I dread, 'tis through delight
O' bloody fowlin',
At whilk poor dogs ye whauk and hyte,
And haud them yowlin'.

Confound you and your cringin' valets,
Wha bear your blasted powther wallets;
Gae hame, among your pimps and callets,
In stews obscene,
Whare ye may row on hanty pallets,
In acts unclean.

Your vile contaminated blood
Boils, like the tempest-waken'd flood,
Throughout your veins, by riot rude,
Malignant, raised,
Whilk lea's ye aft in crankous mood,
Baith doilt and daised.

358

Syne, to recruit baith saul and body,
Ye lea' a-while the reekin' toddy,
And in some hackney, gig, or noddy
Ye tak the fiel',
While covies, frae their snug abode, aye
Before you reel.

Plump, sonsie, harmless, toddlin' things,
Wha chirr amang the mountain springs,
Aft maun you pine, wi' gory wings,
Frae deadly guns;
But yet your state nae pity brings
Frae thae base Huns.

Ye paitriks too, though now ye hide
'Mang yellow corn-fields wavin' wide,
The persecution's blast maun bide,
Fell, fell indeed;
And, dyin', welter side-by-side,
Through their cursed greed.

And you, ye hiddlins whiddin' hares,
Whan winter's breath wi' rancour rairs,
Will taste the poacher's wily snares,
'Bout kail-yard dykes,
And sloungin grews, aft unawares,
Vile worryin' tykes.

Though I could view wi' tearless e'e,
By hunter's han's, tod-lowrie dee,
Yet suff'rin' innocence to me
Brings grief, I vow;
Withouten bluster, brag, or lee,
As truth 'tis true.

My malison upon you a'!
Wha stifle feeling's glorious law;
This trade I canna brook ava,
Sae, while I've breath,
My cauldest love to you I'll shaw,
And hettest wraith.

359

STANZAS ON READING IN THE GLASGOW HERALD THE ACCOUNT OF LAYING THE FOUNDATION STONE OF A MONUMENT In Memory of Robert Burns.

Hail! Scotia's free-born, gen'rous band,
Who merit still reward,
Who memo'rise, in order grand,
Your country's boasted Bard!
But why this monumental cost?
The fame of Burns can ne'er be lost!

Till Chimborazo's summits high
Sink beneath the ocean wave,
Remembrance shall, with tearful eye,
Rove round his laurell'd grave;
For while his varied muse we trace,
We meet each true poetic grace.

Though Gothic gloom again return,
And spread all Europe o'er,
Fame's sacred, safe, and golden urn
Would soon his works restore;
Since, under fate's auspicious hand,
His strains ring sweet in every land.

Oh how the magic of his lyre
Thrills through the feeling soul!
So potently his force and fire
In native torrents roll:
Nor roams he e'er for imagery
Among the groves of Thessaly.

The Lugar, Logan, Nith, and Doon,
By bards neglected long,
Now sweetly glide, through many a tune,
In Caledonia's song;
For every scene that caught his eye
He stamp'd with immortality.

His was the gifted power to paint
Love's various-working glow;
Or pour the bosom-rending 'plaint
Of misery and woe;
Or laughter's comic nerves excite;
Or sting with satire's vip'rous bite.

360

What though but lowly was his lot
Through life's tempestuous gale;
The russet robe—the lonely cot—
Which want did oft assail!
His mind intrepid braved the blast,
And reach'd fame's glorious fane at last.

His patriot soul for Scotia swell'd,
To raise her name in song;
And, though from learning's light expell'd,
His fervid genius, strong,
Such warm effusions to the world displays
As wreath his mem'ry with unfading bays.

Hail, Scotia's sons! who thus unite
With meritorious aim,
To 'grave his worth in letters bright
Upon the roll of fame!
That all who view this splendid pile
May recollect the Bard of Kyle!

An Address to Poverty.

My gaunt attendant here below,
I judge thee still my greatest foe:
Thou bar accursed to every pleasure
I'm teased by thee beyond all measure:
Acquaintance with thee gains no love,
I here protest by all above.
Hope once half-promised time would be
That I should bid adieu to thee;
Yet still I see thy haggard face,
And, spurning, feel thy cold embrace.
Hope is an ignis fatuus bright
That oft has lured me, by her light,
Onward to castles built on sand,
Through many a visionary land;
And, after all her roamings vain,
Me left on want's blank arid plain.
Nought now avails my grief to cure—
Fate's roll me dooms a weaver poor.

361

VERSES ON SEEING A Trout in a Small Pool,

IN THE DROUGHT OF SUMMER, 1821.

Swift, timid captive of the stream,
Why start with wild alarm?
Think not that I, to take thy life,
Would bare a plund'ring arm.

Base were the wretch, unfit to live,
That could make thee his prey;
'Twere rank extortion, direly wreak'd
On poor necessity.

The savage, who, from fields and floods,
His daily wants supplies,
Is blameless, though, in quest of food,
He banish feeling's ties:

But what excuse can he produce
To salve the ruthless deed,
Who, out of wanton cruelty,
Could make thee hapless bleed!

Oh would it not increase thy fears,
I'd free thee from that shallow;
Then, in the deep wide limpid linn,
Thou'dst glide, swift as the swallow!

The sun that now, so fiery hot,
Drinks moisture from the main,
But fills the sky with humid clouds,
To slake the earth with rain.

Then shalt thou down the foaming stream
From bondage be set free,
To roam at large the swollen floods
In perfect liberty.

362

On Hypocrisy.

EXTEMPORARY.

The rose's dye is deepest in the shade,
And black Hypocrisy is best unseen;
That by the sun's fair light is paler made,
And this, when tried by truth, doth prove unclean:
True gold with honour stands the rigid test,
But base alloy, unheeded, passes best.

Lines to a Young Lady,

WITH A SONG.

How dang'rous is the art of Poesy,
If 'tis possess'd by one that's prone to guile;
Best it can dress the tale of flattery,
And, like a knave, put on a mimic smile.
Oh let it ne'er be said in Britain's isle,
Her bards use flattery to deceive the fair;
But if, to gain a heart, they use each wile,
And are successful, may they solemn swear,
Ne'er to change, till death, with direful visage, stare!

363

SONGS.

JACK JIBB.

[_]

MUSIC,—Original.

Jack Jibb went aloft to the topsail-yard,
To view the wide horizon;
And, while fancy did roam
With his Nancy at home,
He the blue hills of Wales cast his eyes on.
Oh how his manly bosom glow'd,
As in fancy she's clasped in his arms,
And the warm tear of joy
Glitter'd clear in his eye,
When he thought on his true love's charms,—
When he thought on his true love's charms,
When he thought on his true love's charms;
And the warm tear of joy
Glitter'd clear in his eye,
When he thought on his true love's charms.

When roaming afar on the desert deep,
In quest of India's treasure,
Still his thoughts, night and day,
With his Welsh maid did stray;
Her sweet smile was his life's dearest pleasure.
Now, as he nears his native shore,
Safe return'd from the ocean's alarms,
All the dangers of the deep
In oblivion now sleep,
When he views again his true love's charms,—
When he, &c.
When he, &c.
All the dangers of the deep
In oblivion now sleep,
When he views again his true love's charms.

364

Let raging tornadoes mix sea and sky,
Jack, now safe moor'd from danger,
Has furl'd all his sails,
By his pole-star of Wales,
O'er the ocean no longer a ranger.
The blithe bland smile of his faithful fair
His true bosom with ecstacy warms;
He quaffs his can of wine
Off, in bumpers divine,
Never more to leave his true love's charms,—
Never more, &c.
Never more, &c.
He quaffs his can of wine,
Off, in bumpers divine,
Never more to leave his true love's charms.

ROBIN GLEN'S COURTSHIP.

[_]

AIR,—“The Gobby, O.”

Auld Robin Glen crap owre the style
To clatter an hour wi' blithe Nepple Lyle;
The carlin leugh as he doitit ben,
Thinkin' love had come back to the lan' again.
He frae his bonnet shook aff the snaw,
And hang his plaid on a knag at the wa',
Syne in the big-chair, by the ingle's smile,
He his gloamin-shot took aside Nepple Lyle.

The crack gaed on 'bout the uncos roun',
That happen'd o' late in kintra and toun;
At length the kimmer, wi' paukie maen,
Said “Robin, ye'll now be e'en dull your lane.”
“Ay, ay,”, quo' Robin, wi' tearfu' e'e,
“It's now twal' simmers sin' Mirren did die,
And ilk o' my dochter's, as chance befell,
Has left her auld father, to please hersel'.

“Our Bell, the youngest o' aucht, yestreen,
Was beukit, although she's jimply fifteen;
And now, when left by my hindmost wean,
I'm min'd no to sit like an owl my lane.

365

Gin ye'll consent, we'll creep thegither,
And live fu' happy wi' ane anither;
There's nae man's marrow, in a' the isle,
Sal be beiner or blyther than Nepple Lyle!”

“Indeed,” quo' Nepps, “I'll ne'er say nay,
My han' and my heart ye frankly sal hae;
Your baith a man o' means and o' mense,
O' flawless conduct, and sterlin' sense.”
“Settled,” quo' Robin, “there's my neive;
Ye happy sal be as lang as I live;
I'se let my thouchtless dochter Bell
See, I hae got matchin' as soon's hersel'!”

He to the dominie's toddled straucht,
And, ere they parted, o' swats took a waucht;
Neist day ilk ane in the kirk did smile,
When Robin was twice cried to Nepple Lyle.
A canty bridal the hale toun gat,
They feasted and danced till they rifted and swat,
And ne'er a kimmer in Carrick or Kyle
Gat a better down-sittin' than Nepple Lyle.

GLASGOW FAIR.

[_]

AIR,—“Chelmsford Races.”

The rising sun, through mist and dew,
Was blinkin' owre the mountains blue;
The hares were whiddin, the heath-cock crew,
And fragrant and fresh was the air, man.
The lav'rocks scarce had tuned their throats,
When through the meadows, wi' kilted coats,
The lasses were springin' owre burns and gots,
A' braingin' awa' to the fair, man.

The lads soon follow'd, attired fou spree,
Wi' watch-chains bobbin' down to mid-thie;
To meet wi' their joes, and glowre at the shows,
Was the feck o' their business there, man.
Jockeys are scourin' alang the roads,
Prick-the-loops rinnin' wi' tables and brods;
Dicers and thimblers, and jugglers and tumblers,
Are a' startin' trade in the fair, man.

366

The hale toun's shakin' wi' prancin' steeds;
Wabsters are rinnin' wi' wallets and reeds;
Souters and sawyers, and doctors and lawyers,
Straucht aff to the shows a' repair, man:
The Calton keelies are fingerin' fabs,
Cloak'd in their knavery by barefitted drabs:
Folk in high fashion had need o' some caution,
To come aff hale-scart frae the fair, man.

Hark! the medley o' music around;
Melody's smother'd and harmony's drown'd;
Trombones gruntin', and bass-fiddles scruntin',
Now torture our lugs to despair, man:
The bagpipes yell, and the organ bums,
The cymbals clatter 'mang trumpets and drums;
French-horns yowlin', and wild beasts growlin',
Help up wi' the mirth o' the fair, man.

Business is brisk wi' the merry-go-roun's;
Waterloo swings are gaun up like balloons;
Rowley's rungs' reelin' folk's shins aften peelin',
Which min's them o' scaith to beware, man:
Merryman's showin' his wit and his pranks,
Heads-owre-heels wheelin', wi' quick-mettled shanks;
Fine ladies dancin', wi' spangles a' glancin',
Bewitchin' a' een in the fair, man.

The day grows het, and the crowd grows thrang,
Justlin' and bustlin' the merry day lang:
The Charlies, gleg watchin', are skiebalds quick catchin',
When ony ane's fab's riffled bare, man:
Fuddlers, forjeskit wi' stour and wi' drouth,
Flock to the tap-rooms to moisten their mouth,
Deemin' a bicker o' sterling maut liquor
The essence and saul o' the fair, man.

Gloamin' draws on, and dangers draw near,
Land'ard folk, guided by prudence and fear;
Spank up the hills, to escape a' the ills
That the brawlers behind them may share, man:
The carry's now mirk, and there's naething but wars
'Mang pedlars and pickpockets, tinklers and tars;
And the Office and Jail are fill'd in fine style,
To bring up the hale rear o' the fair, man.

367

THE ADVICE.

[_]

Air,—“John Anderson, my Joe.”

Dear lass, while lads are plenty,
Wale ane, if ye be wise;
For, ance ye're five-and-twenty,
But few will speer your price;
But few will speer your price, Jean;
And, mind, ye'll find it sae,
For the witchery o' your cheeks and een
Will rapidly decay.

I ance was young like you, Jean,
Aud wooers had nae few,
Wha roosed my een sae blue, Jean,
And neck o' lily hue;
Yet I, sae wise, took nae advice,
But teased them ane and a';
So now I'm left, o' joes bereft,
And ha'e nae choice ava.

When youth is on our side, Jean,
A' looks life fairy-land;
Age flings the curtain wide, Jean,
And breaks the magic wand:
Ye maun ha'e a' lads rich and braw,
O' fau'ts and failin's free;
But mark in time, while in your prime,
The fate o' ane like me.

“Dear aunt, ye counsel kindly,
I thank ye for the rede;
But think nae I act blindly,
Although I'm no yet wed.
My folk wad ha'e me tak' the laird,
But aye my heart says—no!
For him I can ha'e nae regard;—
Young Jamie is my joe.

“He tells his love sincerely;
Behaves himsel' wi' mense;
For lang has loe'd me dearly;
Can talk wi' muckle sense.
Though dad should preach, and minnie fleech,
And a' my kin should jeer,
I'll wed wi' nane but him alane,
To me than life mair dear.”

368

TAM TWIST.
[_]

AIR,—“Here am I, poor Jack.”

Tam Twist was a tailor true
As e'er put shears in claith,
But he liked the Norlan' blue
As dear as he liked his breath.
His wife was a thrifty dame,
And wish'd their trade extended;
But Tam's most fav'rite aim,
Was to draw in cash to spend it.

(Spoken.)—So he would cheer up his journeymen and apprentices, frae dawn till dusk, with his favourite chorus of—

Chalk before ye cut, cut, cut;
Base before ye sew—be handy;
Brew before ye drink, drink, drink, my boys;
O whisky is the dandy!

When Tam cam' hame in drink,
Then Nell gaed raving mad;
For then he'd curse and sink,
And ca' her a' 'twas bad:
But, when reason wad na do,
She seized him like a tiger,
And by force did him subdue,
For she sprang frae Rab M'Gregor.

(Spoken.)—But before Nell got the better o' him, there was whiles na lown sough in the house, wi' the reelin' o' chairs and stools, the jinglin' o' tangs and poker, and the squeelin' o' weans. It was like the rattlin' o' gabberty-shells, ere Nell could get him master'd, and flung in the bed like a sack o' draft, unable to sing—

Chalk before ye cut, &c.

When Tam arose neist morn,
He did, like ither folk,
To escape mair scaith and scorn,
Tak' a' 'twas said in joke.
Then, to shun Nell's tongue severe,
On the shop-board took his station,
Where his men he up did cheer,
With his wonton salutation—of

Chalk before you cut, &c.

369

Thus time roll'd weekly on,
In its common course, or so,
As other weeks had gone;
Whiles an ebb, and whiles a flow:
Till a luckless date cam' roun',
Tam, for sax lang days, ne'er tasted,
Sae, when Saturday's sun gaed down,
To a weel-kenn'd howff he hasted.

(Spoken.)—And this was neither mair nor less than the house o' Lucky Teughcallaps, that has the sign o' the pint-stoup and haggis, at the west end o' Gibson's Wynd, the place where he aye gaed to pay his men their week's wages, and tak', what he ca'd, in his ain genteel way o' speakin', a collation. Sae, after Tam had settled wi' his men, and they had eaten tripe and cowheel, and drucken a gye twa-three half-mutchkins o' Campbelton whisky thegither, the billies slippit awa, ane after anither, on some o' their ain errands, and left their master hickuppin' a' his lane. When Tam was warslin' awa wi' the yeskin, and fa'in' rather into a dover, in comes twa firebran's o' Irishmen,—ca' for a gill, —and syne began to quarrel about cock-fightin' and badger-drawin'. Tam waukens in a wee; and, hearin' the tongues o' the Hibernians gaun like Jehu, says (hickuppin'), “Frien's, whare got ye your manners, to come stavin' into ony gentleman's company, without speerin' whether ye were made welcome or no?” “Gemmini,” says one of them, “in a' nations of a better place than your pease-brose and brimstone country, where there's nothing but starvation for back and belly, and frost and snow the whole year through!” “Confound your Irish muzzle,” cried Tam, “that has the insolence to speak lightly o' a Scotchman's kintra; but, as sure's my name's Tam Twist, I'll twist the ragged carcase o' ye like a shapin o' duffle!” And syne flang a tankard o' yill in his face, and grippit him owre the table, that gaed awa' wi' a reinge, and brak' a' that was on't. When Lucky Teughcallaps heard that, she ran to the door, and gart a' the street echo, cryin',—Police! police! But the Irishmen, dreadin' skaith, ran out o' the house as fast as their legs could carry them, no sae muckle as takin' time to pay their reckonin', leavin' Tam to clear himsel', and sing—

Chalk before ye cut, &c.

Then in twa Charlies bounced,
And seized him in a trice,
And, though he flang and flounced,
They held him like a vice;

370

Although he cursed and swore,
And sometimes wad resisted,
Yet awa' their prize they bore,
For they soon were weel assisted—singing,

Chalk before ye cut, &c.

To the office straucht he's haul'd,
Amidst the roarin' croud,
Wi' rage and pride sair gall'd,
While the boys huzza'd aloud.
Soon before the judge he stands,
When he's safely moor'd in harbour,
Who consigns him to the hands
O' the doctor and the barber.

(Spoken.)—Sae ye maun be a' weel aware o' what wad follow. The doctor approved of the award of the judge, and the barber obeyed the directions of the doctor; and poor, harmless, merry Tam Twist's beard, whiskers, and bushy head, were shaven as bare as a painch, and his purse lighten'd o' five shillings, by way o' a friendly admonition, and memento, and judicious display of medical skill, to prevent inflammation of the brain, which might have arisen from the excessive exertion made in singing—

Chalk before ye cut, &c.

When Tam cam' frae their care,
Sic a droll sicht's seldom seen,
Wi' his head sae ghastly bare,
And his hat slouch'd owre his een;
When he set it on the left,
To catch his slidd'ry head, man,
Then the right, o' hair bereft,
Was an eldritch sicht indeed, man.

(Spoken.)—But ere Tam wan hame, Nell and the weans were bedded, and the door barr'd; and when Tam gied his usual chap and countersign, she gied a wheen indistinct grumblings about drunken brutes, wasterfu' blackguards, and torments to a' that's conneckit wi' them. But when she lighted the lamp, and drew the bar o' the door, and saw a man wi' lang bare chafts, and his hat restin' on the brig o' his nose, she dash'd the door too again, and squeel'd, Murder! robbers! Sae a' that Tam could say, to convince her o' his identity, was in vain, till the nei'bours, waukened by the soun', drew near, and got an explanation o' the hale affair; syne Nell loot him in, and gied him as muckle halesome admonition as put him for ae night frae singing—

Chalk before ye cut, &c.

371

Neist day Tam got a wig,
His credit in to keep,
Which made his head look trig,
Though it made his head not cheap.
Then let us all take care,
For they're dang'rous times we live in,
Lest we fall into Tam's snare,
And to purchase wigs be driven.

(Spoken.)—And, as a caution to all, I could not recommend a better maxim than Tam's favourite chorus, which, I'm sure, ye ha'e a' by heart by this time, by only alterin' the last line a kennin'—

Chalk before ye cut, cut, cut;
Base before ye sew—be handy;
Brew before ye drink, drink, drink, my boys;
But ne'er let drink command ye!

LOVE TRIUMPHANT.

[_]

AIR,—“The Maid of the North Countrie.”

A lovely young lady once dwelt in Argyle Street,
Surpassing, for charms and accomplishments rare;
Her equal you'd scarce in some thousands of miles meet;
Love shot from her eyes, and he play'd round her hair.
All her dress was so gracefully antic;
Angelic her look, but her fancy romantic;
The beaux of the city, about her grown frantic,
Were sighing and dying 'twixt hope and despair.

She held them in thrall, and capriciously teased them,
Yet ne'er durst a frown on her features be seen;
Intendedly vex'd, and immediately pleased them;
A coquette of skill was this fair nymph, I ween.
Thus did she drag them on in love's fetters,
All proud to be counted her most humble debtors;
But gay wealthy merchants, and deep men of letters,
Were foil'd by one glance of young Captain M'Queen.

When first she beheld this bewitching young officer,
He was a-drilling his troop on the Green;
Sweet rapture's sigh rose when she saw he did notice her;
Love seem'd far brighter to gild the gay scene.

372

Through all her flirting and promenading,
Her jaunting, and flaunting, and splendid parading,
At concerts, assemblies, and gay masquerading,
She still was escorted by Captain M'Queen.

Now all her fond lovers, entirely forsaken,
In pitiful plight, thought of cures for their spleen;
Their jealousy fled, but revenge did awaken
Each low passion's aid, the affront now to screen.
Hope's latest gleam some still fondly did flatter,
But all was delusion; nought could mend the matter;
Some plann'd their last exit by hemp or by water,
While some thought of pistolling Captain M'Queen.

Her father did threaten, her mother did scold her,
(Though sympathy's sigh would ofttimes intervene,)
To wreck all her hopes of the gaudy young soldier,
Though e'er so alluring his rank and his mein.
Thus was she toss'd on despair's surging billow;
All sadly she droop'd, like the lone weeping willow;
She sigh'd all day long, and by night, round her pillow,
Still hover'd the vision of Captain M'Queen.

At last came the rout, and, by six in the morning,
The regiment adieu bade to Clyde's banks so green;
This love-sick young lady, all counsel now scorning,
Resolved fate to follow, whate'er lay between.
To share her love's lot, she was fairly resign'd now;
With parents and lovers she care left behind now;
The door was fast lock'd, but she dropp'd from the window,
And straightway was wedded to Captain M'Queen.

WISHING FOR MARRIAGE.

[_]

AIR,—“Italian Manfrida.”

In vain do they tell me that love's a delight,
While dreaming all day, and tossing all night,
Alternately teased between pleasure and pain;
Afraid, when we part, lest we ne'er meet again;
Suspicious their smiling
May prove my beguiling;
And wishing for marriage, but wishing in vain.

373

How dreary to me is this dull rural life,
While longing to change the maid for the wife;
The wild ceaseless hum of yon foaming cascade
No pleasure can give like the grand masquerade;
The gay Trongate dandies
A sight far more grand is
Than e'er can be seen in the grotto and glade.

The tinkling piano may serve for a while
The slow-passing hours of day to beguile;
But sweeter by far is the gay blazing hall,
While amorous waltzing awakens the ball;
Thus tripping so sprightly,
As love glances brightly,
In Cupid's sweet snare, every heart could enthral.

But what if each trapping that I can devise
Doth fail in the end to gain me the prize?
I'll seek then the shades of the dark lonely bowers,
Where mirth never smiles, and where solitude lours;
Recluse by the wild wood,
The haunts of my childhood,
In silent retirement, I'll spend the lone hours.

HE'S AWA' AND LEFT US:

A DIRGE.

He's now awa' we a' kenn'd weel,
He's now awa' for evermair;
He's now awa' and left us a',
And for the loss our hearts are sair.

Wi' youth's warm cheek and heart sae leal,
Wi' love's sweet smile, kind, in his e'e,
He had to bid us a' fareweel,
And ne'er again his face we'll see.

He's now awa', &c.

Aft has he join'd our cheerfu' ring,
To spend in social glee the night,
Beneath the shade of pleasure's wing,
In harmony, till morning light.

He's now awa', &c.

374

THE INSTRUMENTAL BAND.

[_]

SUNG BY MR. JOHN BURNS, VOCALIST, EAST KILBRIDE, AT A CONCERT FOR THE BENEFIT OF THE E. K. INSTRUMENTAL BAND.

[_]

AIR,—“There's nae luck about the House.”

Stern winter, wi' his sullen gloom,
Again has left our isle,
And fresh and fragrant summer's bloom
O'er hills and glens doth smile:
The birds a universal cheer
Pour forth, in chorus grand,
And now, with joy, again we hear
Our Instrumental Band.

CHORUS.

Let music charm the ear and soul
With ecstacy sublime,
And, with increasing cadence, roll
Down to the end of time.

Long, long has dreary silence shed
Dull languor o'er this place,
And blithesome mirth seem'd ever fled
From every blooming face;
But now that gloom has vanish'd quite,
As touch'd by magic wand,
And young and old hail with delight
The Instrumental Band.

The youngsters quickly leave their play
Whene'er they hear the drum;
The auld folk fling their cares away,
Though nearly blind and dumb;
While lads and lasses, wives and weans,
Th' excitement can't withstand,
To revel 'neath the lofty strains
Of th' Instrumental Band.

Long may they peace and health enjoy
To ply their charming art;
May jarring discord ne'er annoy
The pleasures they impart;
Our gratitude we would express
With voice, and heart, and hand,
In three-times-three, to wish success
To th' Instrumental Band.

375

THE BRIDE OF LORN.

[_]

AIR,—“Rose of Lucerne.”

Before the break of day
The clansmen were ready,
And the bargemen in the bay
At their station sat steady;
And, soon as the sun tinged the summit of Benledi,
The chieftain cross'd the firth for his fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
The chieftain cross'd the firth for his fair bride of Lorn.

No cloud was on the sky,
No wave on the water;
The chief heaved rapture's sigh
For M'Lean's lovely daughter.
The bard sang her praise, but her charms he could not flatter.
So peerless was the look of the fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
So peerless was the look of the fair bride of Lorn.

When she graced the bridal hall,
With her ladies attending,
Amazed the guests were all,
At her beauty transcending.
The blaze of the di'mond, and brilliant topaz blending,
Was dimm'd beside the eyes of the fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
Was dimm'd beside the eyes of the fair bride of Lorn.

With feasting, song, and dance,
Every hall echoed gladness,
Till the sun's departing glance
Tinged the dark clouds with sadness;
The wind howl'd, the sea scowl'd, all nature cried 'twas madness
To trust the surging waves with the fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
To trust the surging waves with the fair bride of Lorn.

While raged the tempest wild
Round the high cliffs of Jura,
Fate whisper'd—“Chief, beguiled,
I of life can't insure ye!”
A huge billow burst, as it roll'd with frightful fury,
And sank the bonny barge with the fair bride of Lorn;
The bride of Lorn, the bride of Lorn,
And the mermaid sang the dirge of the fair bride of Lorn.

376

THE MAID OF ARRAN.

[_]

AIR,—“The Quaker's wife.”

I've wander'd here, and I've wander'd there,
Amang the western islands,
To view the scenes of nature fair
That grace the lanely Highlands.
But what to me seem'd nature's charms,
Dull, dreary, bleak, and barren,
Till I enfaulded in my arms
The lovely maid of Arran.

Her eye serene show'd beauty's queen,
To love the soul beguiling,
With charms to move all hearts to love,
Such rapture's in her smiling.
Her brow the lily's hue bespeaks,
Her lips, the rose of Sharon,
And warm's the glow that tints the cheeks
Of the lovely Maid of Arran.

'Twas on the smooth shell-bedded shore,
Wash'd by the rippling ocean,
I first her spied, whom I adore
With love's unfeign'd emotion.
Unusual transport seized my soul,
All nymphs beside debarrin';
For there she reigns without control,
The lovely Maid of Arran.

Within Glenrosy's sunny vale
How sweet wi' her to wander;
Or lofty Goatfell's brow to scale,
And on her beauties ponder!
Let merchants strive for wealth and fame,
Let kings for power be warrin',
For me, I wish nae higher aim
Than the lovely Maid of Arran.

CHORUS.

Hail, lovely maid! hail, charming maid!
Hail, peerless maid of Arran!
Nae lassie, though fair, can ever compare
Wi' the lovely Maid of Arran.

377

MY LASSIE'S FAR AWA'.

[_]

AIR,—“O' a' the airts the win' can blaw.”

The setting sun, through crimson clouds,
Shot wide his parting beam,
And tinged wi' gowd a' Cramond woods,
That shade sweet Almond stream,
When loud a swain did thus complain,
Beside the waterfa'—
“Nae joy to me can life now gi'e,
Sin' my dear love's awa'!

“The vi'let banks, the woodbine bowers,
And water wimplin' clear,
Shed countless charms, while in my arms
I clasp'd my true love dear.
Now a' looks wild that ance gay smiled,
Roun' bonny Craigie-ha';
Ilk birdie's lay to me doth say—
‘Your lassie's far awa'!’

“How could she leave her native plains,
Sae rich and fair to view,
And seek for love 'mong westlan' swains,
Than mine, mair warm and true?
Fate's sternest blast hath blawn at last,
And broke my heart in twa;
Now, een and morn, I sigh, lovelorn,
‘My lassie's far awa'.’

“Green spring may bud, gay summer bloom,
And autumn wave in vain,
But ne'er can cheer the darksome gloom
That maun wi' me remain.
Grim winter's storms, in direst forms,
That owre the Pentland's blaw,
Accord now best wi' my sad breast,
Sin' my dear love's awa'.”

378

SWEET MARIA.

[_]

AIR,—“Roslin Castle.”

Upon this verdant bank I'll lie
Till Phœbus quit the evening sky,
And Luna, with her visage pale,
Gleam faintly down this rural vale.

The birds sing sweetly through the grove,
And cheer this lone retreat of love;
Eden-fragrance breathes around
This charming fairy-haunted ground.

The raptured hour is drawing nigh,
And for Maria I espy;
With sprightly step, across the glade,
She hastens to the ivy shade.

The western breeze blows through the broom,
And wafts along a sweet perfume;
But nought, in all kind nature's charms,
Is like Maria in my arms.

THE LOST SMILE OF HOPE.

[_]

AIR,—“Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch.”

Canst thou, wilt thou leave me, Callum?
Dar'st thou then deceive me, Callum?
Ah! where now thy plighted vow,
That thou would'st never grieve me, Callum?

If to the lowlands thou should'st stray,
And leave me lone in wild Glengarry,
Some fairer maid, with dress more gay,
May haply turn thy love from Mary.

Canst thou, wilt thou, &c.

Where then the smile of hope so fair,
Of hope thou often bad'st me cherish?
All sunk in gloomy, breme despair,
And doom'd, alas! for aye to perish.

Canst thou, wilt thou, &c.

As fades the freshest flow'ret's bloom,
When by the eastern breeze 'tis blighted,
So fades the maid, in hopeless gloom,
When by a faithless lover slighted.

Canst thou, wilt thou, &c.

379

CORA LINN.

[_]

AIR,—“Ye banks and braes.”

Adieu! ye woods of mantle green,
Where lofty Cora thund'ring flows:
Where, twinkling in the sunny sheen,
The pearly dew-drops gem the rose.
Adieu! ye ivy-skirted rocks,
Which overhang the deep profound,
Ye long have stood fell winter's shocks,
And echo'd Cora's deaf'ning sound.

But yet that sound is, to my ear,
Sweet as Malvina's dulcet lyre,
Which rung, the poets mind to cheer,
While rapt in wild seraphic fire!
Yet I must leave the fragrant grove,
These giant rocks, and ruin'd dome,
The foaming Linn, the dark alcove,
And, musing dreary, wander home.

Written on returning from a view of Cora Linn, near Lanark.

Malvina was daughter-in-law to Ossian, and daughter of Toscar.

MATRIMONIAL JOYS.

[_]

AIR,—“The Opera Hat.”

Fill the glass, fill the glass,
Fill the glass up to the brim;
Here's a lass, here's a lass,
Here's a lass that's tight and trim!
Oh I've courted twenty years and more,
In hopes to find a wife;
Hard fate, thy banter now give o'er,
Else it will take my life!

Haste away, post away,
No longer let's delay;
Haste away, blithe and gay,
Come, thou happy marriage day!
All the pleasures that in life I've had
I count them only toys,
For nought my love-sick heart can glad
But matrimonial joys.

380

Last night I had a sorry sight,
When at the barber's shop,
For, grey wi' care, a tuft o' hair
From my temples he did lop:
The sight did shock my feelings so
I heaved this bitter sigh—
“If courtin' keen I do forego
A Bach'lor I must die.”

PARTING OF NORMA AND ANNA.

[_]

AIR,—“The Highland Plaid.”

Morning rose, but rose in vain,
To dispel love's teasing pain;
Still the bitter tear and sigh
Burst from Anna's heart and eye:
The grief she felt what tongue can tell,
To bid her Scottish lad—Farewell?

Still he tried, with cheering smile,
Sorrow from her look to wile;
But, alas! his every art
Fail'd to soothe her throbbing heart;
For still her breast did higher swell,
To bid her Scottish lad—Farewell!

Love's ecstatic tide did flow
Through her soul, though mix'd with woe;
Silence stay'd her falt'ring tongue
As around his neck she hung;
And still the tears in torrents fell,
To bid her Scottish lad—Farewell!

When they took the parting kiss,
Lovely sign of future bliss,
Long they gazed, with meaning eye,
Heaving oft the mutual sigh;
And each did feel the bosom knell,
To say the grievous word—Farewell!

381

THE ABSENT SWAIN.

[_]

AIR,—“Up and waur them a', Willie.”

Why sae soon awa', Jeanie?
Why sae soon awa'?
Come back again to Torrance glen,
And gang nae mair awa'.

The birks hing wavin' owre the rocks,
The primrose gilds the brae,
Laburnum waves her yellow locks
Within the sunny ray;
The mavis pours his meltin' strain
Within the greenwood shaw;
But nature smiles to me in vain,
For now thou'rt far awa'.

Why sae soon awa', &c.

Oh lay your love some ither airt
Before your face I saw?
O had some ither won your heart,
And won it ance for a'?
That noucht could gar your fancy jee,
To dwell by Calder's side,
When I could gi'e the warl' for thee,
Gin ye wad be my bride.

Why sae soon awa', &c.

Oh gin I kenn'd but whare ye dwell,
Though distant mony a mile,
Nae win' nor weet, nor snaw nor sleet,
Wad gar me think on toil;
If cheerin' hope ae ray wad drop,
To say ye wad return,
To spend your days on Calder braes,
Beside the wimplin burn.

Why sae soon awa', &c.

IN YON GREEN GLEN.

[_]

AIR,—“We'll meet beside the dusky Glen.”

My lovely shepherd tends his flock
In yon green glen,
Beside the ivy-skirted rock,
In yon green glen;

382

While the blithesome lambs do play,
'Mong the brackens waving gay,
On the bonnie sunny brae,
Down by yon green glen.

How sweetly swells his mellow flute
In yon green glen,
While echoes still his strains salute
In yon green glen:
Far remote from jarring strife,
There he spends his peaceful life,
Where the rural joys are rife,
Down in yon green glen.

Away, ye thoughts of grandeur, far
From yon green glen;
And shine, my fortune's gleaming star,
On yon green glen:
Guide me to my shepherd's arms,
Where no guile nor fear alarms;
Still my thrilling heart he charms,
Down in yon green glen.

THE MAID OF ARGYLL.

[_]

AIR,—“The Sprig of Shilellah.”

Give Erin and England their shamrock and rose,
Let Scotia the thistle's rude merits disclose,
Which bright on the ensigns of heraldry fly:
More pleasant to me is the look of my love,
While with her I stray through the dark birken grove;
For nothing that's earthly can vie with the smile
Of that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather blooms on the mountains so high.

How sweetly at morn blooms the red brier rose,
When, spangled with dew-drops, its bosom it shows,
Perfuming the air, and delighting the eye;
But more fresh than the rose is the cheek of my dear—
And more bright than the dew is her eye shining clear;
And powerful those charms, that each fancy can wile,
Of that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather blooms on the mountains so high.

383

Old poets have sung of the bright queen of love,
And Daphne, the pride of the dark shady grove,
In strains which the rude hand of time do defy:
But if pleasure can flow from the warm feeling heart,
And if beauty and youth any charms can impart,
Then dear, as the queen of the Cyprian isle,
Is that lovely maid from the hills of Argyll,
Where the red heather waves on the mountains so high.

THE LOVELY MAID OF JURA ISLE.

[_]

AIR,—“Thou bonny wood o' Craigie lea.”

O lovely maid of Jura isle,
O guileless maid of Jura isle,
There's nought can rival her sweet smile,
The darling maid of Jura isle!

The city belle may strive to gain
The am'rous heart by ilka wile;
But a' her arts would prove in vain
Beside the maid of Jura isle.

O lovely maid, &c.

When boreas owre the mountains blows,
And snow bedims the sky the while,
To me, they seem their force to lose
When wi' the maid of Jura isle.

O lovely maid, &c.

Her e'e sae meek, her blushin' cheek,
Her mind sae far remote frae guile,
Ha'e stung my heart wi' love's sweet dart,
Enchantin' maid of Jura isle.

O lovely maid, &c.

How aft, wi' sangs and tales o' glee,
She care did frae my breast exile,
While rangin' owre the mountains high
Wi' her, the flower of Jura isle.

O lovely maid, &c.

O fate, protect this charming maid,
Frae ilka knave's deludin' smile,
Till I recross the waves, to wed
The fairest maid of Jura isle.

O lovely maid, &c.

384

THE MAID OF COWAL.

[_]

AIR,—“Blithe young Bess to Jean did say.”

Beside Adrossan castle wa',
Awee before the dew did fa',
I met a lass surpassing a',
The brawest Maid of Cowal.
The rosebud and the lily meek
Sweet blended on her glowin' cheek;
An e'e that to the heart could speak,
Sweet, graced the Maid of Cowal.

The finest form, the sweetest face,
That e'er a Scottish lass did grace,
Maun surely evermair gi'e place
To her, the Maid of Cowal.
Wi' stately step she glided on,
Wi' mien that weel might grace a throne;
In a' her airs perfection shone,
Wi' her, the Maid of Cowal.

O blissful hour, when out I stray'd
To where I met that lovely maid,
In those enchanting charms array'd
Which grace the Maid of Cowal.
To see her mild angelic smile
Would cheer the weary pilgrim's toil—
The hermit frae his cell could wile—
To follow her to Cowal.

What e'e but beams wi' rapture's rays!
What heart but glows in transport's blaze!
When love her masterwork displays,
The peerless Maid of Cowal!
On Monarchs' crowns let diamonds shine,
Round heroes' brows let laurels twine,
Mair dear to me's the smile divine
Of her, the Maid of Cowal.

385

A Reflection on Life.

[_]

The verse has been extracted from prose text.

386

Why, mortals, spend this spark of time
In life's vague fleeting joys?
When long eternity, sublime,
Awaits their frantic choice.
Relentless fate stands, ready nigh,
To seal the doom of all;
Nor ardent prayer, nor throbbing sigh,
Can e'er postpone his call.

Time's utmost realm's remotest shore
Is nearing on apace;
We reach the beach, life's gale is o'er,
We feel death's chill embrace.
We launch into the chasm unknown,
Untried, and unexplored,
Where scenes unthought of shall be shown,
Which fame did ne'er record.

388

Each hour of time's more dear than gold,
'Tis what gold cannot buy;
Nor can Golconda's mine unfold
This rich, this precious die!