This is a reproduction of a library book that was digitized by Google as part of an ongoing effort to preserve the information in books and make it universally accessible.

http://books.google.com

££■ im^Wi 'it V 825M889 L m in the ©ittt jof |lcnt IJorw

ff,

15

fp

#=

W^hfi &i mm ,(j?$S

Tff&fe

■ 4 .yS IP (D B HI S3

OK VARIOUS SUBJECTS,

BT THE LATE WILLIAM MUIR, campsie;

WITH Notices 33toflrapI)icaI ants Critical

OF THE Author and his Writings.

" A man he was to all the village dear."

OOLMMITII.

GLASGOW:

TKINTKD FOR WILLIAM TURNBULL, GLASGOW; WILLIAM BLACKWOOD, EDINBURGH; AKD LOVGHAK, HURST, REUS, ORME, AND SHOWN, LONDON. 1818. Printed by William Lang, 62, Bell- Street, Glasgow. TO

ROBERT WATT, ESQ.

OF LUGGIE BANK,

THIS WORK

OF HIS DECEASED FRIEND,

IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,

BY HIS OBEDIENT SERVANTS,

JOHN and DAVID MUIR.

1 <■! $ J U I A NOTICES BIOGRAPHICAL,

Sfc.

William Muir, author of the follow ing Poems, was the second son of John Muir, Portioner of Birdston, a small village in the Parish of Campsie, Stir lingshire, at which place he was born on the 28th day of November, 1766. In his infancy he was remarkable for docility and attention, for a closeness of observation, and for a shrewdness of remark greatly beyond his years. At the usual age he was sent to school in the neighbouring town of Kirkintilloch, where, under the care of Mr. William Bennie, at that time a teacher of great respectability, he finished his course of a3 vi English reading, much to the satisfac tion of all concerned. He afterwards entered upon the rudiments of the Latin tongue, but this he soon laid aside for arithmetic and book-keeping, of which having made himself. fully master, he was, with a view to the mercantile profession, placed in the shop of Mr. John Gray, haberdasher in Trongate, Glasgow.

The confinement of a shop, however, and the bustle of a city, did not suit the modest, and rather shy, disposition of our juvenile Poet. Nature, indeed, had denied him that easy frankness of ad dress, and that imposing familiarity of manner, which forms such a capital in gredient in the character of a merchant; and that pert flippancy with which the frothy coxcomb so easily supplies its place, he had too much stubborn Scotch honesty to acquire, and far too great a portion of the pride of genius, though he had acquired it, ever to have put in practice. Accordingly, after a very Vll short trial, he relinquished the scheme, and returned to his native place.

In the year 1782, he was, at his own particular request, apprenticed to Mr. William Fergus, merchant and saddler in Kirkintilloch, under whose care he became a very excellent tradesman, pre serving, at the same time, all his rural habits and attachments, as he slept every night under his father's roof, all the time of his apprenticeship.

Having completed his engagements with Mr. Fergus, notwithstanding his rooted aversion to a town life, he found it convenient or necessary, in the pro secution of his business, to become an inhabitant of Glasgow, where he was employed for different masters from the year 1787 till 1791, when, to perfect his knowledge of business, he went to London. A poetical account of his voy age to that place will be found among the Poems which compose this volume. vm He had a number of friends in London, and he was favoured with recommend atory letters to several gentlemen of high respectability, which made his re ception in that city particularly flatter ing, and gave the promise that it should also be profitable ; but a serious indis position, accompanied with a vomiting of blood, induced him in a few weeks to return to his friends.

His native air and the kind attentions of his relatives, were the means of re storing him to wonted health, and the remainder of that year he was again employed as a journeyman saddler in Glasgow. Some time after this, he re moved to Falkirk, and commenced busi ness on his own account, a step which he had ever after reason to regret. Few Poets have ever had any thing like success in trade ; and upon the acknow ledged principles of human nature, per haps it would not be difficult to shew that few of them ever will have any. There have, indeed, been, and there

A IX probably will always be some exceptions. Unhappily, however, our Author was none of them — after struggling with un toward circumstances for two years, he was at last obliged to give up the con. test, with the loss of all his patrimony, and so much disgusted with what he had experienced among the honourable fraternity of fair-dealers, that, as far as we know, he never again made an at tempt to get into business.

From this time to the day of his death, his life seems to have been uniform, with out any thing to alter its even tenor, ex cept the death of his father, which hap pened in the year 1808, and which, from the circumstance of all his brothers being married, and his father's fire-side being the only place that he had ever acknow ledged as a home, seems deeply to have afflicted him. To sleep in a bed dressed by other hands than those who had al ways done it — to use any other seat than that he had always used — or to see strange faces around that ingle which he had considered as almost exclusively his own, was more than he could patiently bear. Hence, the reader will find some of his Poems alluding to that event, much more deeply imbued with the spirit of Poetry, than with the spirit of Philosophy. Time, however, the great healer of grief, had begun to have a very happy effect upon him, and he was following out his business in the neigh bourhood of home, as he had done for many years, but with much more spirit; when, on the 21st of October, 1817, it being the fair day of Kirkintilloch, he went into that place upon some neces sary business, and going up a stair in the evening to call for a friend who happen ed not be within, he, on turning to come down (as it is supposed) missed a step — fell to the bottom, and was killed on the spot. Medical aid was speedily pro cured, but it was of no avail; he was taken home to Birdston a lifeless corse, and on the Friday following, interred in the church yard of Campsie, in the burying place of his family. XI Such is the brief history of a life that consisted of fifty-one years — a life that was doubtless often exhilarated with ex pectation and hope; many times darken ed with despondency and fear; but the results were never chronicled on earth, save in the book of conscience, which he has taken along with him to verify the book of heaven's remembrance, and we are left to exclaim with the inspired Poet, " sure each man at best is wholly vanity !" ■ \

In his person he was above the middle size, rather inclined to corpulency, with a placid and contemplative countenance. In his manners gentle and unassuming ; in his temper naturally sweet, and to the highest degree benevolent; though from the weakness of his nervous system, ag gravated, no doubt, by repeated disap pointments, and by the indulgence of that languor and lassitude that are na turally attendant upon the poetic tem perament, strongly tinctured with me lancholy. xu He lost his mother in early life; but from the care and attention of one of the best of fathers, it is probable that he never much felt the want of her. He was never married, and it does not appear from his papers, that he ever felt, to any extent, that most felicitous or most cala mitous of all passions, love. He had a natural turn for painting, and has left behind him some fine specimens of his taste and his attainments in that arduous and elegant art. To the charms of mu sic he was most feelingly alive, and up on the German flute was a first-rate per former. He had a fondness for animals, that to minds less delicately formed, would appear ridiculous, and met with returns of gratitude from them, that with minds- of only ordinary information, would with difficulty obtain credit. His great delight seems to have been to wander among the scenes of rural life; to contemplate the husbandman pursu ing his peaceful labour among green fields and purling streams, surrounded with flocks and herds, and cheered by xm the rapturous music of the groves, till, in his warm imagination, primitive gran deur and integrity were restored, and the blushing landscapes of Eden spread themselves all-glorious before him. Of his very numerous productions, a great many seem to have been composed on his being awakened out of such pleasing reveries, and hence, they are imbued with a kind of querulous pathos, a some thing scarcely admitting of description, but which cannot fail to strike every discerning reader.

In his religious opinions, he was a sin cere and steady believer in all the cardi nal doctrines of Christianity; and in his political, a real friend to the constitution of his country. That in his younger days he leaned to the side of Reform, I can easily conceive, but he had always too much sense, and at any rate too much feeling, ever to have been a re publican in the modern sense of the term. His beautiful little Ode to the memory of Mr. Pitt, shews distinctly what were b XIV his views upon the subject, in his last and best days.

He appears to have been upon the whole, a man exceedingly amiable, breathing nothing but kindness to the whole creation, possessing talents equal to any undertaking. — But he appears at the same time, never to have found a stimulus strong enough to arouse him from that enervating melancholy, which all poetic minds are but too prone to indulge; and of course, he was sometimes restless, without knowing what to take up as exercise; sometimes unhappy with out any visible cause — but we shall not

Further seek his merits to disclose, Nor draw his frailties from their dread abode, There they alike in trembling hope repose, The bosom of his father and his God.

Having said so much on the Poet's life, it only remains to say something, and that very briefly, concerning his XV writings. As a Poet, in which cha racter alone he is before the world, he is distinguished for sweetness, and a most amiable sensibility. For general or extended description, it does not ap pear that his faculties were sufficiently disciplined, hence his poems of that class, are perhaps among the least pleas ing of his compositions; but where he depends upon the feelings of the heart, he is at once strikingly pathetic and beau tifully moral. Take, as an example, the Hyndberry-brae, one of the many en gaging little pieces that seem altogether congenial to his heart, and to have spon taneously sprung from his feelings.

When life it was life, and when fancy was young, When pleasure wove garlands of flowers, When the vespers of Nature the choiristers sung, In their bonny wee eglantine bowers; How happy was I then, I kend na weel how, Though now I'm convinc'd it was sae, When frae the rank blue-bells I skill "d the clear dew, That bloom on the Hyndberry-braa.

I kend na there was sic a thing as dull caro, I car'd na a fig for the morn, The flower o* the present I pu'd, and still mail, I pu'd it, nor met wi' a thorn. b2 XVI

The Spring had its pleasures, the Simmer an' a'— The pleasures o* Simmer and Spring, Before T cou'd prize them, gat aff an' awa', Like geese when they flee in a string.

I do not know any thing more finely Horatian, than the mixture of gayety, of melancholy, and morality, which the four last lines of this extract exhibits.

Lines on Local Attachment present us with a fine specimen of poetic feeling, with much sweetness and simplicity of expression.

My native parish, how transform VI, Since first I knew thy face; My bosom is no longer warm'd, When I thy paths retrace. These paths, alas ! are modell'd new, Their rural aspect gone; The favourite bush I can't review, Nor yet the favourite stone.

Thy ancient hills alone remain From innovation free ; Thy ancient hills alone constrain Parochial love from me. Hie Glazart stream, that once so pure Did thro' thy vallies glide. Meandering past the cottage door, And by the hamlet side; xvu

Is now a poison'd putrid rill. Diverted from its course, To drive the massy fulling mill. With all its frothy force. Where rustic labour us'd to toil, And wield the swinging flail. Machinery drinks the needed oil, Loud thundering in the gale.

Among men, in general, and among the aged, in particular, these lines will recommend themselves as the genuine offspring of unsophisticated nature. One of the first attachments we form in life is with the natural scenery around us, and the more rude the scenery, generally speaking, our attachments become the stronger. Hence, the love of coun. try is found invariably to be in exact proportion to the ruggedness and wild- ness which the country displays. Are not the Swiss, the Tyrolese, and the Scots, the most national people in Eu rope, excepting, perhaps, the Norwe gians and the Icelanders? And are not the Esquimaux and the Greenlanders more national still ? Perhaps there never was a man, who had been absent from b3 XV111 the scenes of his early life, however low ly they might be, for any length of time, and, who on his return, found that they Had gone into the hands of a new pos-. sessor, who had taken down the half-rot ten houses, removed the midden-dubs, and the lazy-stanes, and built in their stead an elegant mansion, surrounded with all the embellishments that nature presented, or that art could assemble: perhaps there never was a man so situ ated, however mild his disposition, who did not at first sight, breathe, over all this finery, the bitterness of a most heart felt malediction. There can be no doubt that this strong and universal feeling a- rises, partly from a deception that every mind, in such circumstances, pats upon itself; yet it has its foundation in truth, and is exercised not altogether without reason: for, as the external improvement of a country proceeds, and the stimulus to industry becomes more powerful, the natural selfishness of the human heart seems to be more than proportionably enlarged and indulged, till avarice, in one XIX sweeping circle, involves the whole com munity. And, in such cases, the prero gatives and the privileges of the weak, are always first invaded. Scarcely is the career of improvement begun, when the sunny knowe which overlooked the vil lage, with its skirting of furze, its man tle of yellow broom, and its purple crown of heath — where childhood has found its wealth, youth its pleasure, and age its repose, time immemorial, becomes no longer venerable, and ceases to be sa cred. The mattock and the hoe must pass over all its blooming attire — the shining share tears up its bowels— the thorny fence rises around it — proud pro perty says this is mine — and woe to the unhallowed foot that shall dare to in trude upon it. I am not saying whether the hill is not now really more beautiful covered with corn, than it was when co vered with furze, or heather, or broom — the individual who pockets the pro duce, will affirm that it is at any rate more profitable; though the many chil dren of poverty, whom God in his pro JtX vidence has not given so much as a foot- breadth of inheritance among their breth- ren, and who must now look to the goodly frame of the heavens and the earth, only from the king's high-way } when it rains, from among the dirt, and when it is dry, from among clouds of dust, will probably be of a different opinion; all I affirm is, that it has lost its interest, presenting nothing to the poe tic eye, or the philosophic mind, but what is common to every ploughed field between Johnny Groat's House and Whitehorn. The Poet's preference of the flail to the threshing mill, is equally just and natural. Whatever may have been gain ed in point of utility by its introduction, it will be allowed by all who have their ears atuned to the music, I do not say of sweet, but of natural sounds, that we have lost by it, one of the most exhilar ating which winter can afford, and gain ed in return, one of the most disagree able in nature. In short, the improvements of com- XXI % merce and agriculture, except in a limit ed degree, are altogether uncongenial to poetry. Generally speaking, the lan guage of the man who is busy in carry ing on great improvements, is,

" Hence, vagrant minstrel, from my thriving farm; Far hence, nor ween to shed thy poison here ; My hynds despise thy lyre's ignoble charms, Seek in the sluggard's bower thy ill-tim'd cheer."

There cannot of course be much of sym pathy between them. The Poet delights to meet men in the festive circle, to awaken their mirth, their indignation, or their scorn; the improver, to meet them in the fields of toil, diligently em ployed, that he may swell the round of his private enjoyments— or by the dis play of his wealth, receive those atten tions, and attain that superiority among men, which Nature has, perhaps, inter dicted him from reaching by any other means. I have made these few desultory re marks in vindication of the Poet, as this is with him a frequently recurring sub XXU ject, and though he does not speak fashionably upon it, he appears always to speak poetically, and for the most part justly. But this is not by any means his only excellence-, specimens of ex quisite humour, though like the humour of the Scottish Poets in general, some times rather broad> will be found in his Ode to the Itch — The Address of the Inchbelly Road — Elegy on David An derson — To a Live Lobster — and parti cularly The Washing Day — which is equal to any thing of the kind in Scottish poetry. Of the humorous and the ten der united, The Address to his Auld Bachles — To an Auld Plough — Elegy on the Auld Corss Stane, &c. — are very happy examples ; and for Doric simpli city, than The Address to Auld Crum- mie, a Father's favourite Stick — Elegy on Auld Browny, a Cannie Cart Horse — My New Coat o' Blue— The Wild Bee on the Willow Bud — The Violet, or hum ble Hedge Flower, with many others — few finer. specimens are to be met with. Of the most dangerous and difficult part XXU1 of the poetic art, Prosopopeia, many beautiful specimens might be selected ; and of the deepest pathos, examples are so numerous, that it would be alto gether useless to particularise them. — All the hope I have — Local Impressions .— A Prayer, Sunday, 19th June, 1814 — The Orphan of Age, &c. will, with feel ing readers, most probably be particular favourites ; and let it be remembered, that they are posthumous works, and consequently want that careful revisal in going though the press, which is often of more use than all that have gone be- fore it. I shall conclude these cursory remarks, with his Farewell to Prosperity, which, whoever can read without a sigh, I must say I do not envy him his feel ings.

My youth it is gone, ev'n my manhood and prime Look forward to certain decay; The waste I have made of my fugitive time, Strikes my bosom with fear and dismay. My passions and habits, with despotic rule, Treat a sigh of regret with asperity; They kick or allure me by turns like a fool, Farewell, and adieu \f> prosperity. XXIV

To add to my suff 'rings, now maimed for life, In a contest which Bacchus had rais'd, With tears I look back to the cause of the strife, And at times on the limb I have craz'd. I see that for ever, disabl'd I must Resign ev'ry act of dexterity, And till my poor fabric is laid in the dust, Bid a lasting adieu to prosperity.

By friends I'm neglected, the grave and the wise My society studiously shun, While the bosom less cruel, that scorns to despise, In a whisper cries, " Ah ! you're undone." That truth I confess, with a bosom that's torn, That truth I confess in sincerity; With the views of my state, to despair I am worn, Farewell, and adieu to prosperity.

But why thus remind me of what I am now, Without ever striving to raise The load of misfortune, that makes me to bow And waste in dumb sorrow my days ? It is just like giving calamity's whip, By a tear at a distance, severity; - The aid is but weak of the eye or the lip, To restore a poor wretch to prosperity.

Ye Pow're, who, for ends to yourselves only known, Have allow'd me to wallow in guilt. Who have seen my contrition, have heard ev'ry groan, And witness'd each pang I have felt; 0 ! screen me from that sad reserve yet in woe, Dependent to live upon charity ; 1 ask you but this — I've no prospect below. But to bid an adieu to prosperity. CONTENTS.

pin Speed the Plough, --.... l An Address to Auld Crummie, a Father's favourite Stick, 5 To his Auld Bachles, ...... 5 Elegy on an Auld Plough, ..... 8 The Steam Barge, ...... 10 An Elegy on Auld Brownie, - - - . - 13 An Elegy on David Anderson, - - • . 17 Elegy on the Auld Corss Stane of Kirkintilloch, - - 20 To a Rusty Nail, ...... 23 To Boreas, ...... 25 The Mourning Magpie, ..... 28 Elegiac Epitaph on Edgar, a Shepherd's Dog, - - 30 On meeting a Strayed Lamb, ... 33 The Ploughing Match, ...... 35 Verses on seeing an Ant-hill demolished, 38 Elegy on Robin Wallace, - . - - - 41 Verses on a Lark, ...... 4g A Caution to the Kirkintilloch Cloth Merchants, . 48 Lines on the Shop door of Mr. T. M. merchant, Kirk intilloch, - f - - - - -51 Lines on Liberating a Lark, .... n,. The Washing Day, ...... 54 Verses on a Weasel, -----_ 57 Verses on the Competition of Pipers at Edinburgh, dur ing the Races, ...... go Jubilee for Jubilee, ...... 64 All the Hope I have, ...... 66 Instinctive Fidelity, ...... 68 A Sigh for the Past, - . - - 1 - -70 C XXVI

TAOt. The Auld Sair, ...... 72 The Parental Relic, ...... 74 My Little Niece, ...... 76 The Harvest- Hatched Brood, - - - - 78 An Eye towards Home, .... - 80 The Wood of Craigmarloch, - - - » 82 Obscurity, --.-..- 83 Lines on the Difference betwixt Dumb and Clamorous Grief, ' - -,- - - ... 84 Smoking Soliloquy, - - - - 86 The Dark Day of Fortune, ...» 88 The Hynd-berry Brae, ...... 89 The Flower of Yesterday, - - - ... 91 On the Decay of Local Attachment, - - 93 My New Coat o' Blue, ..... 95 The Type of Tenderness, ..... 96 Lines composed on the Couch where an aged Father concluded his Pilgrimage, ... 93 The Bird on the Bush Top, ..... 99 Local Impressions, ...... 101 Farewell to Prosperity, ...... 102 A Prayer, Sunday, 19th June, 1814, - - » 104 Weekly to my Natal Spot, - - . . - 106 Tears are the Trifles of Woe, .... 10a A Prayer by the Bed-side of an aged Parent, - - 109 The Phantom of Fate, - - - - x- 111 A Prayer for Peace of Mind under the Pressure of Mis fortune, - - - . . - . lis The Solitude I wish for, - - . . - U4 Autumn's rear is Winter's van, - - . . 116 The Dirge of the Season, • . - . -118 A Conditional Recipe for driving Cold Winter away, 1 30 Robin Red Breast, or, The Winter Visitant, - 121 Lines on seeing a Wandered Child, - - .123 xxvn i

' PAGE. Hie Silent Sod the Shroud of Death, - - . 125 The Diamond Drops of Dew, - . . - 1 27 The Phantom of a Fracture, - • - . 126 The Sepulchral Sod, - . . . --ISO Ode to the Snowdrop, - - - . . «32 Adieu, ye Arctic Winds, - • . » -138 Nature's Revival; or, The Return of Spring, - 155 The Wild Bee on the Willow Bud, - - - 137 The Violet, or, Humble Hedge Flower, • . 138 The Primrose dipt in Dew, ..... 140 The Rural Ruin, or, Cottage Decayed, . . 141 The Rose and the Reptile, - . . . . 143 An Address to the Rainbow, - . . 144 Conceited Comparisons, - . . . - 1 46 An Address from the Shade of Robin Wallace the De ranged Mendicant, &c. . . . 14$ The Blackbird's Adieu, - . . . - 150 On November, . - - . . j«jj The Barn Yard, 153 The Winter Rose, ...... 155 Verses on seeing an old Holly bearing Berries to De cember, ----.. 13« The Sweet-Scented Willow, . . . - I58 The Pinion of Time, - . . . „ 139 The Blighted Blossom, ...... J«l Ode to the Lapwing, - . . . . 153 Ode to the Owl, ...... leg National Intrepidity, . . . . 167 Cottage Content, ...... jgg The Chimney Nook of Ease, . . . i j 72 The African's Anthem, ...... 173 Trie Twin Sisters, ...... 175 Mezercon Mildness, - . . . ' . . 177 The Little Lapidary, - - . . . 173 xxvm

IAOX. The Lovely Laburnum, ..... 180 May is the Mother of Flowers, - - . . 182 The Blackbird's Return, - - - - .183 Lines on the Rise and Fall of the Leaf, - - 185 The Orphan of Age, ...... 188 Experimental Reflection, ..... a. Lines on the Anniversary of the Birth of James Thom son, author of the Seasons, - . - 1 90 Kelvin Keep Low, ------192 Lines on Moon Rising, - • - . - J 93 Description of a Voyage from Carron to London, - 196 Woodhead House, ...... 200 Lines on Kincaid House, - - - - 203 The Villa of Broomhill, - 204 The Heights of Bhurtpore, ..... 206 Lines addressed to John Lang, Esq. of Broomhill, 208 Stanzas to Miss J. G. on the Death of her Brother, - 209 Lines on the Blank Page of a Burial Letter, • 211 Lines on the first of April, 1813, - . - 212 The Month of June, ..... 214 The By-way to Wealth, - - - - - 915 Tranquillity, . ------216 Lines addressed to Mr. John Gray, Teacher, Campsie, 2 1 8 The Larks, - 221 Lines on the Consecration of a Sequestered Corner for the Burial Place of the Author's Family, - 223 Lines on the First Anniversary of the Death of the Author's Father, ..... 225 Lines to the Memory of Captain Alexander Stirling, - 226 To the Memory of the Rev. Mr. John Belfrage, - 229 Verses on hearing the Funeral Bell of the Rev. Mr. Wil liam Dun, Kirkintilloch, - 230 The Autumnal Crocus, 232 Dejection of Mind, - - - - ... 233 XXIX

rxex. Silence, ...... 234 Obstinate Opinion, ...... 23S The Midges, --.....237 Journal of a Sleepless Night, .... ib. The Robin's Retreat, ...... 239 The Humble Petition of an Old Family Clock, - 240 The Palace of Scoone, ...... 241 Lines addressed to Archibald Cu thill, Esq. - - 244 lanes Sacred to the Memory of Mr. William Benny, late Schoolmaster in Kirkintilloch, » • 246 Contemplation, - - . . . - -248 Lines to the Memory of the Right Hon. William Pitt, 250 The Cauld Sleet is Coming, ..... 252 The Farmer's Harvest Hint, .... 253 Winter, an Ode, ...... 254 Epistle to Mr. Alexander Morrison, ... 256 Epistle to Mr. R. W 258 A Hymn to the Herring, ..... 260 The Live Lobster, ...... 262 An Ode to the Itch, ...... 265 The Inchbelly-Bridge Road's Complaint of Injury and Innovation, ...... 266 An Address from the Base of the Town's Steeple, Kirk. intilloch, ...... 268 The Humble Petition of the Town Steeple of Kirkintil loch, ...... 270 An Acrostic, ...... 273 Lines wrote on viewing the Trunk of a Tree lacerated by Lightning, ..... jj. Lines placed over the Grave of the unfortunate Mr. John Watt, jun. of Kirkintilloch, - - - 275 An Ode to the Acorn, ...... 276 The Hamlet in the Dale, ..... 278 The Cockoo's Adieu 280 XXX

An Advertisement, - - - - . - 282 A Lang Poem on Little, • 284

On J F st, sen. M— t— n, - - .286 fen Mr. W Y , - - - - - 287 On Miss Gartshore of Gartshore, - - - - 289 On J S , late Cooper in Kirkintilloch, - 290 On Mr. 'A C , late of the Ship Bank, Glasgow, 291 On John Gartshore, Esq. of Gartshore, - - 292 On Jamie Tennent, - 294. On Michael Johnstone, ----- 296 On Whilpy Dog, a sweet little Pup, - - - 298 Fire-side Pharmacy, ------300

ERRATA.

Page 7, line 5, for Ne'er minded what full sleepers, read Nor minded what dull sleepers. . 13, 21, for fitter-Ian, read fit o' Ian. ___ 21, 1, for langsye, read langsyne. ___ 26, 9, for stoock, read stook. i 54, 4, for joys, read joy. 68, 1 7, for his, read her. __ 81, 21, for Indies, read Indus. __ H3, 3, for opposite, read apposite. — 151, 4, for May, read my. __ 154, 3, for foilage, read foliage. 185, 20, for polar, read poplar. — 210, 16, for gaod, read j

The following Sonnet was addressed to Mr. Mure, only a few days before his death, by Mr. A. Morrison, and it is hoped that he will not take offence, that it has been selected as a Motto to the Work.

Dear Mum, the Muses' faithful votary — Thy gem, Strevlina— and fair Nature's child; Oft have thy strains my lagging hours beguil'd, And rous'd my soul to love and extacy.

The pleasing sweets and charms of Poesy, That grace the flowing numbers of thy pen, Shall gain for thee, thro' Albion's farthest ken, A name, thro' ages that shall never die.

Long may'st thou live to raise thy country's name, And hear thy praise re-echoed from afar; Long may'st thou live, her ornament and star, Wearing the laurels which thy merits claim: And when the mandate from above is given, Transported, may'st thou wing thy flight to Heaven. POEMS.

SPEED TO THE PLOUGH.

Ye generous Britons venerate the Plough. THOMSON.

When cauld sleety blasts an' surly March weather, Scowl bleak frae the North o'er the grey summit's brow ; An' wave the thin locks o' the brown shaking heather, Then, then is the time to wish "speed to the plough."

For then to turn 'over the sod an' the stibble, The poor docile sjeeds'in the traces they bow; An' patiently plod thro' the sleet an' the dribble, An' wish (wi' their shoulders) " gude speed to the plough."

The Husbandman cheerfully tramples the furrow, Tho' drench'd wi' the weet is his bonnet o' blue; At night, on a pin he hangs't up till to-morrow, Then rises again, to put " speed to the plough." A 2

Thro' thick an' thro' thin he whistles his sonnet, Thro' foul an' thro' fair his toil to pursue; He's king o' the land, tho' his crown is a bonnet, An' his subjects pay homage wi' ,( speed to the plough."

Frae wars an' fell weapons o' death in the battle Secluded, he to his dependants is true; He studies their gude o'er the stilts and the pettle, An' asks nae mair o' them, but " speed to the plough."

Then ne'er by his rig in a proud empty flutter, Let coquette an' coxcomb disdainfully go; But aside throw theirairs, an' their frivolous titter, An' heartily wish him «« gude speed to the plough."

To a' our best wishes his right comes frae Adam, The first wha did tumble the furrow, I trow; Then Master, an' Missy, an' Monsieur, an' Madam, Join a' in the chorus o' " speed to the plough."

Frae the throne to the threshold where poverty enters, Frae the high cloister'd nun to the slut in the stew, In this strain o' devotion their int'rest concentres, " Gude health to the Husbandman, speed to the plough."

8

AN ADDRESS TO AULD CRUMMIE, a father's favourite stick. Wrote shortly after his decease, October, ] 808.

A relic o' a frien' that's gone, Wi' interest is look'd upon, Tho' it were naething but a stone, He us'd to sit on, Or o' the sark he last had on, An auld sleeve button. The mournfu' an' the pleasing too, Attend us in the sad review, What ance his fond affection drew, Tho' sma' its worth, Can gie our grief (I fin' it true) A speedy birth. Thee, honest Crummie, now as such, Wi' reverence an' awe I touch, For mony a year thou was the crutch O' life's decline; When frien'ly aid was wanted much, That aid was thine. Aft hae I seen thee thro' the mire Between the house, the barn an' byre, Support my feeble aged sire, Wi' tenty care, Or wi' the tangs, beside the fire, Await him there. A 2 4

An' ay as years did on him press In human frailty's sore excess, The mair to mak' his sorrows less Was still thy wish — Thou left to soothe his keen distress, Thy native bush. Whene'er he totter'd down the yard, Thou arm in arm wi' him was pair'd, In a' his toils thou kin'ly shar'd, Frae morn till e'en, An' for thee his unfeign'd regard Was plainly seen. For mony a time he us'd to say When met by neibours on his way, " This is the nearest frien' I hae, This gude auld Crummie, If it by chance e'er gang astray, What will come o' me ? Without it I can travel nane, (Wi1 dizziness sae aften tane) Or stan' ae minute safe my lane, Beside a stack, Unless some body o' my ain, Be at my .back." Now, honest Crummie, a' thy days Be thy head crown'd wi' lasting bays, Mair durable than a' the sprays In yonder glen; Thou hast supported mony ways, The best o' men. An' may his fam'ly Jang revere Thy faithful philanthropic care, An' bid their children's children spare Thee for his sake, An' ne'er a play-thing ever dare Of thee to make.

THE BARD'S ADDRESS TO HIS AULD BACHLES.

Let beaux and fops admire their stumps Adorn'd wi' glossy shining pumps, Or boots that ha'f way to their rumps, Weel dight arise, I careless view their varnish'd vamps, Or silken ties. No — let the soutor girn an' gape As he were twisting in a rape, An' knap an' spit, an' rub an' scrape, To fit the cloot, Then affwi' maccaroni shape, Turn shoe or boot. For me he needna beat his ben, Or arm wi' birse his lingle en', ' For me he'll neither mak' nor men', Nor shape nor pare, As lang's I hae (for ought I ken) My bachles there. A 3 6

My wordy bachles, aft wi' you I've stachard thro' the dirt, whan fu', Tho' now ye're auld, ye ance were new, An' stive an' Strang, As e'er thegither buckle drew, Or leather whang. Ye were nae paper sealskin graitb, (No worth a body's wearing, faith) That rive like a bit rotten claith, Wi' stress or strain, The best neat's leather ye were baith, The hide my ain. Tho' now nae mair ye're water tight, I've seen ye clampers stout an' wight, That sair'd me weel by day or night, In dirt or mire, Ere thro' your seams did glint the light O' e'ening fire. But ah! the soles torn frae the uppers, Degrades ye now to morning slippers, . When I wi' mad poetic vapours, Forsake my couch, An' rustle thro' amang my papers, Wi' wakrife touch. Then in your open free embrace My cauldrife soles I careless place, An' musing, strive the ways to trace O' man around, Or frae the Muses snatch a grace In rhyming sound. How aft wi' you below my tred, When Morpheus frae my slumbers fled, Wi' some epistle by my side, I've sat till morn, Ne'er minded what full sleepers said, Wi' a' their scorn. Nae midnight slipper cramps their taes, When hirpling up Parnassus braes, Sworn friends to slumber, stink an' flaes, They onward snore, Till lazy Phoebus' upward rays Keek thro' the door. Unlike the bachle-footed Bard, The tunefu' Nine his sole regard, The passing hour is noteless heard, That tolls to rest; Their smile he counts his best reward, To fire his breast. Nae hours can regulate his rest, His sleep's a waking dream at best, Wi' hope an' fear alternate press'd, An' carking care, The breath o' praise a specious jest, A frown — despair. AN ELEGY ON AN OLD PLOUGH,

BROKE TO PIECES FOR FIRE-WOOD.

Since worthy bodies when they die, Lamented are in elegie By Poets better far than me, I rude an' rough, Maun just sit down an' greet awee O'er an auld pleugh. There in that same dark sooty neuk, Anaith the cadger's plaiding pock, Lies the auld head without a sock, The beam beside it, The stilts an' a' in pieces broke, That us'd to guide it. The very pettle, riest an' seath, Are pil'd up for a fiery death — The swingle-trees an' a' the graith, I now maun mourn, Except the airn-wark o' the smith, That winna burn. When it was sturdy hale an' fier, Wi' sock an' couter bright an' clear, It could a rig for corn or bear Fu' brawly shape, A dainty warkloom mony a year, Baith gude an' cheap. It was nane o' your English breed, . That Clyde or Carron-wark maun clead, But yet a fur to co'er the seed It aft did draw, Better than ony yettling head Amang them a'. I've seen it at a ploughing-maich, When ithers did but scrape an' scratch, Gar a' the hillocks heave an' hotch At sic a rate, Fo'k cried, «« That pleugh could soon dispatch A hale estate." Nor did it lose its honest fame "When at a rough rig-en' at hame, Tho' in the gutters to the wame The horses lair'd, It thro' them gaed up to the beam, An' never fear'd.

It might weel ha'e been lasting yet, Had brawny no ta'en't wi' his fit Ae day when turning in a fret, At the rig en'; What way he chanc'd it sae to hit, I dinna ken. But ay sinsyne the little stilt Has worn a weary rupture belt About its middle, firm nail'd till't, To keep it snug, The beam anither, sadly felt At ony rug.

' 10

Then bit by bit began to fail, The cripple pieces hurt the hale, Till at the last, to boil the kail, Ye see it there, While I its fortune sair bewail, W mony a tear.

THE STEAM BARGE; Ok, NAUTICAL NOVELTY. Wrote on seeing the new-inVented Steam-Boat pass through the Great Canal, dragging two Vessels behind it, fully loaded.

When first by labour, Forth an' Clyde Were taught o'er Scotia's hills to ride, In a canal, deep, lang, an' wide, Naebody thought That wonders without win' or tide, Wou'd e'er be wrought. To gar them true that boats would sail Through fields o' corn, or beds o' kail, An' turn o'er glens their rudder tail, Like weathercocks, Was doctrine that would needed bail, Wi' common fo'ks. They ca'd it nonsense — till at last They saw boats travel east and wast, Wi' sails an' streamers at their mast, Syne without jeering, They were convinc'd the blust'ring blast Was worth the hearing. 11

For mony a year wi' little clatter, An' naething said about the matter, The horses harl'd them thro' the water, Frae Forth to Clyde, Or the reverse, wi' weary splatter, An' sweaty hide. Then we believ'd, poor silly bodies, (Wha naething ken o' learned studies) That horses hoofs an' hempen woodies Bid still to draw them, An' cursing callans, clad in duddies, To swear an' ca' them. But little think we what's in noddles Whar science sits, an' grapes an' guddles, Syne darklins forth frae drumly puddles Brings things to view, That the weak penetration fuddles O' me an' you. For lately we ha'e seen a lighter, An' in her doup a fanner's flighter, May bid boat-haulers a gae dight her Black sooty vent ; Than ha'f a dozen horse she's wighter, By ten per cent. Wi' something that the learn'd ca' steam, That drives at heughs the wa'king-beam O' huge engines, to drain coal seam, Or carry hutches, She in her breast swells sic a facm, As has few matches. 12

By it she thro' the water plashes, An' out the stream behint her dashes At sic a rate, baith frogs an' fishes Are forc'd to scud Like ducks an' drakes amang the rashes, To shun the mud. When first I saw her in a tether, Draw twa sloops after ane anither, Regardless o' the win' an' weather, Athwart her bearing, I thought frae h— 11 she had come hither A privateering. An' that the pair she had in tow Were prizes, struck me sae, I vow, I cry'd (when fixed to their prow I saw her cable) In Satan's furnace now they'll lowe, Amang the rabble. It was sae odd to see her pulling, An' win' an' weather baith unwilling, Yet d — 1 me care, she onward sculling, Defy'd them baith, As constant as a mill that's fulling Gude English claith. Can e'er (thought I) a flan o' reek, Or boiling water's caldron smeek, Tho' it were keepet for a week, Perform sic wonders, As quite surprises maist the feck O' gazing hunders. 13

But facts we canna weel dispute them, Altho' we little ken about them, When prejudice inclines to doubt them, Wi' a' her might, Plain demonstration deep can root them, An' set us right. Or lang gae, now wi' whirligigs, An' steam engines, we'll plough our rigs, An' gang about on easy legs, Wi' nought to pain us, But flit in tethers needless nags, That us'd to hain us. Braw news, indeed, for man an' beast, They'll then ha'e nought to do but rest, An' on their former labours feast, Wi' chearfu' hearts, When thus they see warm steam insist To play their parts.

AN ELEGY ON AULD BROWNY, A CANNY CART HORSE. " Thou was a noble fitter-Ian', " As e'er in tug or tow was drawn." BUftNS. Ye Horses o' the cart an' plough, The Muse mak's her complaint to you, She's unco sad, an' wat ye how Her heart does bleed, She's lost a frien' (a frien' how true) In Browny dead. B 14

A frien' she's lost, an' you a brither, Sae mourn ye baith wi' ane anither, In simmer when ye're in the tether, Let out to feed, Lament, if haply ye forgether, For Browny dead. He was nane o' your mongrel cattle, That after hounds an' hares can brattle, His station was afore the pettle, In time o' need, Now down your cheeks let sorrow rattle, For Browny dead. Sae sonsy too, a wean might ca' him, An' ony way it liket draw him, There ne'er was ane that kent him, saw him Wi' secret dread, Or ever wish'd to say, " Shame fa' him," To Browny dead. When tae'n to shoein' at the smiddy, Whar mony a ane gangs daft an' giddy, An' gets their noses in a woody, To haud their head, He pleas'd the smith he was sae steady, But now he's dead. Nor in the stable did he risp His teeth, when rubbed wi' a wisp, Tho' twisted hard like ony hesp O' hempen thread, Now a' the bairns they greetin' lisp, That Browny's dead. 15

They kent him a', for by his heels They aften ran like reckless de'ils, At ithers a-ses to the fiel's, The farce to lead, But troth they might a' danc'd at reels Roun' Browny dead. The very hens cou'd scrape his muck, The cock amang his feet did chuck, An' in the thrang, the waddling duck, Wi' thievish greed — Auld Browny gied them just a look, But now he's dead. At mill or midden, coal or lime, (An' mony mony was the time) The Muse has seen him in his prime, His bosom spread, An' snoove awa' like weel gaun rhyme, But now he's dead. His master's fo'k will ne'er forget him, For a' he did, sae weel it set him, That ilka ane did dawt and pet him Wi' bits o' bread, The scrimpet measure ne'er was met him, But now he's dead. In simmer mornings, sonsy beast, A wee drap whey was his request, He reckon'd it the richest feast, (Tho' sma' the meed) At the door step, a constant guest, Was Browny dead. B 2 16

He keekit in till ance he gat it, The threshold-stane he wad na quat it, For there it was the women set it, An' there fu' glad He gruntling stood, an' swattl'd at it, But now he's dead. But a' his properties to tell Is mair than ony Muse herseP Can e'er pretend, altho' she swell The votive reed — O' a' cart horse he bore the bell, But now he's dead. O ! dire Necessity, thy laws O' mony griefs are still the cause, Thou winna let a body pause, Thy cursed speed The tear o'er Pity's visage draws, For Browny dead. Had Browny aye been hale an' soun', An' fit to trot about the town, He ne'er had like an auld dragoon, Been shot indeed, But anguish made his death a boon, An' Browny's dead. Let causeway censure blame the act That laid poor Browny on his back, An' claver how the murd'ring crack Her heart does screed, She's no the frien', I'll wad a plack, O' Browny dead. 17

Tho' true humanity will strain Her ev'ry nerve to soften pain, Yet if she fin's her efforts vain, This is her creed, To launch a bullet thro' the brain, Like Browny dead. Then a' her feelings are at ease, Her mind recovers by degrees, As zephyr, when the stormy seas Toss'd on their bed, Stills every surge, the swelling breeze An' tempest dead.

AN ELEGY ON DAVID ANDERSON,

LATE BUTCHER IN KIRKINTILLOCH,

Who died 1810 — a well known Character in the Country side.

A' y* wha cut the throats o' sheep, An' hing them by the heels to dreep Like herrin' that hae lain asteep, Come mourn wi' speed, The butcher trade is wounded deep, In Davie dead. He was the king o' a' the craft, His heart was hard, his han' was saft, He took his gully by the haft, An' twirl'd the blade, 'Mang puddin's he cou'd warp an' waft, But now he's dead. B S IS

His palace was besmear'd wi' blood, Drawn frae poor Hawkie's sisterhood, That on the mountains chew'd their cud, Or graz'd the mead — He lang was in a murd'ring mood, But Davie's dead. Weel Kirkintilloch kent his face, The father o' her flesher race, He was the first in a' the place It is agreed, Wore by his side the whittle case, But now he's dead. As glegly he cou'd skin a veal, As Tammy Semple * cou'd an eel, Or Lucky Scott f an onion peel, When soup she made, His knife he rattl'd on the steel, But Davie's dead. A sheep, a lamb, a sow, or so, . Faund Davie still a deadly foe, To breathe a vein, or deal a blow, . j: Was aye his creed, He laid them in a moment low, But now he's dead. Whan kintra bodies gat their marts, Frae east an' wast, an' a' the airts, Auld Davie ay (the ace o' hearts) Was at their head, To gie the brutes their last deserts, But Davie's dead. An old fisher in Kirkintilloch. f Late mistress of a cook-shop. 19

Wi' ae bit glass or he began, He quickly cracked Crummie's pan; A dreg made him anither man, He had nae dread, Tho' like a mad March hare she ran, But now he's dead. As weel as butcher, he was too Physician baith to ca'f an' cow, For mony a time he brought them thro', When scarce the thread O' life remain'd, but waesocks now, Poor Davie's dead. Mysel' I've seen him a' night lang, When ca'fs came to the warl' wrang, In a cauld byre croon o'er his sang In time o' tieed, Till things to rights at last he brang, But now he's dead. Lang faught he wi' this warl' o' care, Till he cou'd stan' an' fight nae mair, An' ay but scrimpet was his share O' warl's bread, He toil'd for little lang an' sair, But Davie's dead. Death cam' at last, an' spier'd his price, An' didna fash to spier it twice, But rattl'd in his han' the dice O' deadly lead, An' number'd Davie in a trice, Amanjj the dead. 20

DAVIE'S EPITAPH.

Here auld Davie lies, As grave an' as wise As ony ane a' roun' about him, An' as temperate too, For he never get's fu', Ye may try him if yet ye shou'd doubt him; He aft took a drink, But at that let us wink, For he lang was a kent honest body, An' his honour was such, That he never would touch The best choice sp'rit if in Toddy.

AN ELEGY

ON THE " AULD CORSS ST ANE " of KIRKINTILLOCH,

Wantonly and maliciously tumbled down and broken, September, IS 15.

Aft ha'e I seen this burgh b 1 Wi' mony a trick o' low-lifd wit, But sure auld Pluto frae the pit, Was no' his lane, That night the h-llish crew upset The auld corss stane. 21

The blackguard gang, langsye, I min', War pleas'd wi' taking down a sign, Or keeping cats an' dogs in pine, They whyles had ta'en, But never did they harm design, The auld corss stane. Auld ancient relic, wae's my heart, Now heels o'er head, dung i' the dirt, An' no' a frien' to tak' thy part, Or sooth thy pain, An aged orphan now thou art, Poor auld corss stane. Lang was thou station'd at the cross, An' stood fu' big, upright, an' doss, How lang, record is at a loss, I dread to ken, Thou'rt aulder far than Joseph's close, * Poor auld corss stane. Mony a fair thou stood an saw, O' fo'k that now are far awa', Who never shook a fit ava, Douse honest men, In ony place like Connel's ha' f, Poor auld corss stane. When thou was set upo' thy feet, To look about to ilka street, The bodies thought thee as complete Frae en' to en', As that braw steeple, ev'ry whit, Poor auld corss stane. * An ancient close at the Cross. f A dancing-hall. 22

Whar now will glowrin bodies stop, To see a sale for public roup, O' " carts an' harrows, growing crop?" In letters plain, On thee they were a' plaister'd up, Poor auld corss stane. Bairns ran about thee at their games, An' cry'd on ane anither's names, They lik'd thee better than their hames, Thou was their den, But fate's depriv'd them now, it seems, O' the corss stane. Ye Baillies, if ye're worth a bubble, Spare nae expence, and spare nae trouble, To catch the sacrilegious rabble, An mak' them fain, Awa' in convicts ships, to hobble Frae the corss stane. Lay seige to all their lurking holes, Ye Carney § police wi' your poles, Slip canny on your stockin' soles, Till Sawney Baynef Proclaim them i' his trap like moles, Brake the corss stane. Mak' haste an' see the bairns embark, Or faith some e'enin' whan its mirk, They'll coup the bell-house aff the kirk, An' then again, Gi'e the new jail some deadly mark, Like the corss stane, § A cant name for Kirkintilloch, f The Messenger at Arms. 23

War our auld daddies but to rise, An' see how laigh, poor thing, thou lies, They'd curse this borough ance, twice, thrice, Wi' angry grane, Who thus let mischief sacrifice The auld corss stane. Poor auld corss stane, in thee we see A type o' human destiny, The hoary head, the feeble knee, Life's dreary wane, Without a frien', maun fa' like thee, Poor auld corss stane. Their insults still the wicked wage Against weak unprotected age, It suffers sair e'er to its page, It put amen — Life's but a dream, a playhouse stage — Or auld corse stane.

AN ADDRESS TO AN AULD RUSTY NAIL, That perforated the Author's Hand, and caused him afterwards great pain, by a long continued Suppuration.

Thou nasty, rusty single-flooring, The pain thou gie's is past enduring, Wha wad ha'e thought, to see thee smooring, Sae thick o' rust, That thou a body's flesh cou'd bore in, Wi' sic a thrust. Thou hid thyseP sin' last December, Amang some auld partition timber, That in a garret lay like lumber, Snug out o' sight. But faith, that day I'll ay remember, Brought thee to light. Thy point was like an auld plough pettle, Whar last year's dirt was left to settle, Yet d — 1-ma-care, thou like a whittle O' sharpest steel, Lanc'd my poor loof (wae worth thy metal) An' gart it beal. An' ay sinsyne it has sae fester'd Tho' poultic'd carefully, an' plaister'd, It looks like some auld sailor's, blister 'd For black deceit, While I, disabl'd and disaster'd, Do nought but fret. A' day I in my bosom take it, An' there a waefu' baby make it, At night, o'er the bedstock I shake it, To gi'e me ease, But fient a pang will e'er forsake it, Do what I please. Sometimes I rowe me in a blanket, Sometimes across the floor I shank it, Sometimes I hum a " Gude be thanket," For sma' relief, Sometimes, when wi' hell's pains I rank it, I ding a' deaf. 25

Wae worth the carpenter wha drove it, An' didna wi his hammer roove it, Or frae the fatal place remove it, For fear o' skaith, He'll ha'e my malison, I'll prove it, While I draw breath, He's but a clumsy careless b — ch, That cou'dna clink a hammer stitch, I hope the rogue will ne'er be rich, For what he's done, He's gart me claw without the itch, Sair out o' tune. An' wae worth them, wha, jeering snash, An' ca' me tentless, fretfu' hash, 44 Sin' ye hae been sae very rash, " E'en thole your ailing:" May fate drive their unfeeling flesh, A rusty nail in.

AN ADDRESS TO BOREAS.

Wrote in the latter end of the dull Harvest of 1799. Nov. 20th.

Whar sleep ye now, ye arctic fury? Say in what region dull ye tarry ? Whan mankind in a feery-farey Are aid implorin', An' lang to hear in regions airy, Your trumpet roarin'. C 26

Haste frae the farthest neuk o' Skye, Or Orkney isles, gin there ye lie, On a' your bitter breezes cry, Your forces summon, Till o'er the Highland hills wi' joy, We hear ye comin'. Ha'e ye nae pity, whan ye look Thro' Scotia's isle frae neuk to neuk, To see sae mony a thrave an' stoock In waefu' plight, A' saft an' soaket, wet as muck, Distressin' sight. To save them now, but thee there's none; Far to the south, the feckless sun, Wi' his shorn rays scarce lights upon Their southmost sides, Then, haste, blaw up thy norlan' drone, An' skelp their hides. Frae off their soakin' seats them lift, An' fling them o'er the rigs like drift, Thro' ilka sheaf damp-hearted sift, An' gar them whistle, Till thrave on thrave in noble tift, On waggons rustle. Gin ye neglect to hear the prayer O' mony a trembling heart sincere, It maksna though ye ne'er do mair, Amang the heather, But sleep beneath your norlan' bear ^ Henceforth for ever. 27

For gin ye this ae time neglect To gie our southlan' dales a shake, I fear the poor, an' maist the feck O' a' the nation, Frae the lean han' o' want will get Their education. Ye're no sae swear in March or May To banish south the genial ray, An' chill the buds on bush or spray, Whan bloomin' nature Shrinks underneath your tyrant sway, In every feature. Had it no' been for these your pranks, Whan spring bloom'd last on Scotia's banks, There had na been sae mony ranks O' stooks in view, For our distress, our backward thanks To you are due. Then haste an' souder up the fau't, Frae dale to dale quick cuff an' ca't, In shapeless heaps haste toss an' blaw't, Till a' be in, An' gin ye like, sleep soun' for that, Sax months again.

C2 28

THE MOURNING MAGPIE;

OR DOLEFU' DOWNFALL.

In blust'ring March, when squalling win's, Try rotten roofs an' kaber pins, Or o'er the new-till'd furrow rins, Wi' sleety power, An' harness'd steeds wi' pelted skins, In traces lour. Amang a sauch-tree's slender boughs, A Magpie built her thorny house, But ah ! that scite she sairly rues, (I ken fu' weel,) As the sad tear that now bedews Her bill, can tell. Nae sooner had her weary toil, Glean'd the refuse o' shade an' soil, Nae sooner had the prickly pile, Seen frae a far, Made her wi' future hope to smile, An' sooth'd her care. Than frae the blust'ring black nor'-wast, There issues forth a dreary blast, That hard on its foundations press'd Wi' blirty frown, Till, swung wi' dread portentous cast, It tumbles down. m

Then in a moment, a' he* care, Her future hope, an' muckle mair, Is tumbled, shapeless thro' the air, How sad the tale ! An' she herself in black despair, Is left to waiL Upon some stile or lonely stab, Her heaving heart gi'es mony a sab, An' clos'd, ah ! close her chattring gab, At early morn, That told the swain she wove her web O' weed an' thorn. Beneath the tree in ruin lies, The victim o' the ruthless skies, The wailing owner, weeping, eyes The waefu' scene, Then to a distance drooping flies, There to complain. 0 instinct ! nature's surest law, Thou'rt sometimes guilty o' a flaw, 1 wha hae nane, fu' clearly saw, Yon shapeless twig, Was not a place for you ava, Your nest to big. If e'er again ye build a thorn, To brave the blast o' e'en or morn, A cliff, branch'd like an antler horn, Mak' ye your choice, There ye may chatter, chirp an' scorn The tempest's voice. C 3 so

There bin' it fast wi' thorn an' wicker, Wi' clay an' marl mak' a' things sicker, Then may you cock your tail an' chicker, An' lay your eggs, An' trust nae mair your nest to tipper On bending twigs. Then let na grief an' consternation Mar the fond fruits o' generation, But haste, resume your occupation, An' ken wi' me, Nae breast that beats wi' warm pulsation, Frae grief is free. The best built hopes o' birds or men, Are aft by causes nane can ken, Just a' to build anew again, When future bliss Fallacious, seemed to seize the rein O' happiness.

AN ELEGIAC EPITAPH ON EDGAR,

a shepherd's favourite dog.

Beneath this hillock's waving breast, In blooming heather richly drest, Where hov'ring tufts o' drowsy mist Hang o'er the steep, Lies Edgar in .the gloomy waste, In death asleep. 31

Poor Edgar, once his master's pride, Whose roving eye did quickly glide, As onward fawning by his side, He watch'd his will, To fetch his flocks, outstretching wide, Frae yonder hill. He was o' dogs the very wale, His glossy back, his curling tail, His noisy clamour in the gale, His gleefu' tricks, Bring o'er his master's cheeks the hail, Whene'er he speaks. He's lost in him a faithfu' friend, That ever did his steps attend, An' still a helping han' did lend, To pen the fold, When winter chilly did descend, In biting cold. To climb the steep or snowy heath, Or range the frosty piling wreath, Where lowly lurking underneath, The bleaters lay, Was still his care, till cruel death Made him his prey. That fatal day (let pity swell, While I the dreary sequel tell,) That saw him skim the rising hill, Wi' eager haste, Be ever mourn'd, an' sorrow fill The howling waste. 32

He went, poor beast, as heretofore To fill his master's lacking score, When ah ! he tumbl'd headlong o'er Yon craggy glen, An' at the foot, a' bruis'd an' tore, Did dead remain. His feeling owner saw him fall, An' loud an' long did Edgar call, To Edgar, frien' an' foe an' all Were now alike, The pointed rock did deep impale The faithfu' tyke. Then to his bosom close he bears, The soother o' his toils an' cares, An' to this lonely spot repairs, In sorrow drown'd, Slow wat'ring wi' his briny tears, Each ghastly wound. He bids the blooming heather wave O'er Edgar's moss encircl'd grave, He bids the tempest mildly rave In sounds o' woe, An' murm'ring deep frae yonder cave, The waters flow. His morning visit here is paid, When evening wraps her silent shade, By secret impulse hither led, He lonely walks, An' wi' his fond companion dead, He raving talks. 33

There's no' a waving heather bud, But drinks his anguish weeping flood, There's no a grass-blade on the sod, But can proclaim How aft the swain, in wailing mood, Calls Edgar's name.

STANZAS ON MEETING A STRAY'D LAMB,

BLEATING ON THE BARREN HEATH.

What ails thee, poor wee innocent, That thus alane upo' the bent, Thou bleats the notes o' discontent, Sae sad an' shrill ? Thy woo'y bosom anguish rent, Does heaving swell. Has wylie Reynard come thy way, Or peace-disturbing, yamphing Tray, Or frae yon rock sae louring grey, The eagle's wing, Singling thee his destin'd prey, Poor bleating thing? Or has the butcher's bloody dog, Thy mammy seiz'd by horn or lug, While she the agonizing tug, Did dumbly bear, Or has some wether's voice, incog, Decoy'd thee here ? 34

Tell me the cause o' a' thy grief, An' rest assur'd o' my relief, The secret tell, O' bleat it brief, An' firm depend, Tho' o' thy kin thou were the chief, That I'm thy friend. Where hae thy sweet companions gane, That thus thou bleats thysel' alane, Nae dam at han' to ease thy mane Wi' list'ning note? Then onward hasting o'er the plain Wi' kindly trot. Perhaps too soon the disregard O' lost affection thou hast shar'd, Perhaps again thy dam is pair'd To future bliss, An' frae her bosom thou'rt debar'd, To meet distress. But, Lammie, look thro' brother man, (In such thy lot) his actions scan, The pensive widow pale an' wan, Her conduct view, Wi' her late husband's pledge in han', She weds anew. Then farewell every kindred tie, The fond maternal feeling sigh, Now chilly frae a step-dame's eye The glance is thrown, An' distant far, the orphan cry Is heard alone. 35 / Then, Lammie, thou art no' thy lane, The herd o' mankind feel thy pain, Then cease thy unavailing strain, An' learn to know, 'Mong man in twenty there are ten, That feel thy woe. Affection's deep engrafted root, Before it has matur'd its fruit, Is aften frae the breast pluck'd out, An' with'ring lies, When passion's unrestrained rout Misleads the wise.

V*\iV\\VM\* THE PLOUGHING MATCH. There, unrefusing, to the harness'd yoke They lend their shoulders, and begin their toil, Cheer'd by the simple song and soaring lark.

THOMSON In days when men were rude an' rough, An' ony thing did weel enough To turn the sward, or cast a sheugh, On fiel' or hill, Nae body hir'd the rustic pleugh, To feats o' skill. Some auld wood-grown misshapen rung, (When agriculture's art was young,) Was to a pownie's hurdjes hung, Without a sock, An' for manure, his daily dung, Pleas'd honest fo'k. 36

Thus savage darkness for a while, Obscur'd the genius o' our isle, Unnotic'd was the peasant's toil, Mid dirt an' mire, Rude was his bleak uncultur'd soil, Rude his attire. But now (thanks to our blighter parts,) The ploughman chiel gets his deserts, ' . His rustic skill is 'mang the arts, Now highly plac'd, An' his endeavours please the hearts O' fo'k o' taste. As lately witness Keppoch park, * Whar nine an' twenty tried the wark, Wi' weel gawn pleughs an' ponies stark, " As e'er trode yird," That gat frae a' aroun' the mark O' warm regard. Nae ill gaun thrawart trash was there, Like our auld langsyne Gothic ware, Cut frae the wood, (they naething mair Thought worth their study) But every ane's weel temper'd share, Warm frae the smiddy. O ! rare to see them tug the tow, An' o'er the sliddery furrow rowe, Ilk rustic breast in sic a lowe, O' eager heat, They to their nags the imjne or home Scarce heard repeat. * A park near Glasgow. 37

While roun' an' roun' the judges stray, To view the heart-delighting play, Or probe wi' rule the turning clay, To try its measure, Surrounded by the grave an' gay, Pursuing pleasure. But naething can divert the swain, His honour is his greatest gain, Wi' tenty han' he strips the plain, Like weel spun laces, Regardless o' the giddy train, In a' their dresses. Thus one by one they streach an' strive, Like bees before a busy hive, Till a' their weel-till'd rigs belyve, Are seen to glitter Like herring on the beach alive, New frae the water. Then judgment stalks wi' lordly air, Across the furrow's bosom bare, To scan the whole, an' then declare Wha's done the best, An' gi'e, as merit claims, a share To a' the rest. Ye patronizers o' the plough, Auld Scotia lifts her eyes to you, Be still unto her int'rests true, Ye needna fear, Wi' agriculture's gude in view, The coming year. D 38

Be this your toast, when ye conveen To celebrate this happy scene, Wi' flowing bowls an' glasses clean, These springs o' joy, (An' next unto your king an' queen Your hearts employ), " Lang may the study o' aration, " Be held in rev'rence by the nation, " Let sword an' dagger, lang in fashion, Be nae mair found, " But in a plough-share's humble station, " Low under ground."

VERSES Wrote on seeing an Ant-hill demolished by a parcel of clamorous School-Boys.

Fobbeab ye noisy plund'ring crew, The emmet's ruin to pursue, That foggage wanton while ye strew, Across the mead, Humanity bids you adieu, To mourn the deed. Unfeeling monsters ! why in sport, Assail this citadel an' fort, Where industry at every port, Her treasure drew, An' humble labour wish'd to court Applause frae you. 39

Nae doubt ye'll say they bite an' sting, Are venom'd imps, an' every thing, That teaze you when in flowery spring, You tread the green ; If such the reasons that you bring, How weak an' mean. Can any body blame the ant, When foraging for future want, If restless rabbles roun' her rant, On slight pretence, To use what Nature kind did grant, For her defence? Look how they run frae cell to cell, Where peace did lang wi' plenty dwell, An' dipt in dew the heather bell, Depending hung, But now wide scatter'd in the gale, It rolls along. Survey the store o' summer's pride, That they in terror strive to hide, Or on the embryo emmet ride, Wi' instinct true, While you wi' urine's poison'd tide, Their path's pursue. Adown each subterraneous cave, Fast flows the noxious muddy wave, While drenched thousands run to save Their winter's store, An' forc'd their darling charge to leave, i . Are seen no more. D2 40

Alas ! unroof 'd, expos'd they lie, To meet the surly winter's sky, December winds will whistling sigh, Thro' every cell, No friendly moss to cheer their eye, Or heather bell. , Secure, but for your idle feet, They here had brav'd the win' an' weet, Or listen'd to the harmless bleat, O' wand'ring ewes, That pass'd to nibble thro' the sleet, The heather knowes. That lesson ye in sport disgrace, Ye vagrant, thoughtless, truant race, Above your tenses tak's its place, By learning penn'd, The commonwealth you now deface, Shows you your end. Without you like the emmet throng, Consult while mankind ye*re among, To tak' the gen'ral good along, Wi' pious care, Depend they'll count you in the wrong, Who emmets are. Consider wretches — young in crimes, The magnitude of guilt betimes^ What now a pastime only seems On emmet hills, Will swell by habits fost'ring beams, To flagrant ills. 41

AN ELEGY ON ROBIN WALLACE,

A wandering and eccentric Character, affected with an agreeable species of mental derangement.

Frae Cam'sie kirk to Airdrie town, An' mony a nei'bour parish roun', Slamannan, an' the Monklan', known To ban's o' tinkers. Let wailing sorrow trickle down, Frae a' your winkers. Let Cum'ernauld loud weep an' wail, Kilsyth an' Carny * hing a tail, An' Cadder too, in sables sail, An' weeds o' woe, For Robin dead — an' let the hail Fast rapping flow. He's gane! he's gane! an' left them a', Nae mair when surly tempests blaw, Will he beside their ingles craw, Wi' visage droll, An' boots or bachles ane or twa, At's button hole. To chear the lanely winter night, In some bit cottage out o' sight, Behint a knowe or craggy height, He had the knack, Whar drowsy slumber seiz'd each wight, Till he came back. * A cant term for Kirkintilloch. D3 42

For mony a year he trudg'd amang them, An' mony a canty ditty sang them, An' when they tint ought did belang them, By sad disaster, Th' infernal powers he'd soun'ly bang them, Wi' pater-noster f. Ane Rabbie Anderson the chief, He wyted as a warlock thief, Sae firmly rooted his belief, Nought gaed astray, But he wad ding a' roun him deaf, He blamed him sae. He'd curse him black, an' whyles beseech him, In milder tones he'd fawn an' fleech him, Then when he faun' nae method reach him, He'd tell him fully, He wi' a knife wad manners teach him, Rush'd thro' his belly. If ony vice or fau't had he, Nae ither.cou'd you blame him wi', Then surely this impiety, On weakness built, Will ne'er be by a deity, Accounted guilt.

* A kind of impious rhapsody, which he always pronounced as a charm efficacious, (as he foolishly thought,) in unclenching the greedy avaricious talons of Rabbie Anderson, a person in the west country, whom he had always been taught to consider as a predatory warlock, and against whom the torrent of this kind of abuse was particularly directed, being often criminally incited thereto by the unthinking vulgar. 43

Anither foible too he had, That nane I'm sure can say is bad, A hatred to the king's cockade, That glitt'ring glances, An' a' the esculapian squad, That carry lances. He cou'dna bear the sight o' either A red coat, bonnet, or a feather, But lost his senses a' the gither, In frantic mood, Whene'er wi' chaps he did forgather, That dealt in blood. O' what pertains to sacred truth, He had collected ample fouth, O' scripture sentences a routh He had in store, That on his min' in tender youth, Their traces wore. Tho' sadly jumbl'd a' thegither, An' revel'd like a hairy tether, A mind discerning soon cou'd gather As muckle frae him, As rev'rence nor devotion neither, Did ever leave him. When sipping o' his wee drap brose, He still a blessing did propose, An' tho' the vulgar laughter rose, To hear him join Thegither scripture, verse an' prose, Like some divine;

T 44

Yet Robin never fash'd his thumb, But hung his brows in pious gloom, Till wi' the creed, or " kingdom come," He gat Amen, Then to his brose an' common bum, He fell again. But to rehearse his funny "doings, That rose on reason's fallen ruins, His auld expressions an' his new anes, That frae him fell, Wou'd mak' a catalogue o' sayings, Owre lang to tell. Then let a' those distil a tear Out o'er his grave that kend him here, For nane did e'er derangement wear, Wi' sic a grace, Nor e'er again will ane I fear, Fill up his place. Wi' innocence his guiltless ways, Did admiration's wonder raise, The sage's look, the youngster's gaze Alike he drew, Till life's deceitful giddy maze, He bade adieu. Then farewell, Robin, while the muse, The grave o' friendless merit views, Thy humble spot remote recluse, She'll often eye, An' o'er the clod that nature strews, Heave up a sigh. 45

HIS EPITAPH.

Here lies Robin Wallace, Sure nane but the callous, Will ever deny him their pity, For wi' reason derang'd, An' his senses unhing'd, He baith was facetious an' witty; As mild as the dove, He was kindness an' love, As aft his snuff-box was a token, An a pinch o' rappee, He wou'd willingly gie, For peace, when na frien'ship was broken; Fu' o' freaks like a child, He was aften beguil'd Into error before he thought on it, Then in his neat grace, He wad mourn o'er his case, An' mercy implore in his bonnet ; Lang lang he withstood, The insults o' the rude, For insults are wonderous common, But now 'neath the sod, His lang-look'd for abode, He slumbers, disturbed by no man. 46

VERSES ON A LARK

That was crushed to death by a Cow during the process of Incubation.

My curse light on your careless cloot, Ye muckle clumsy stampin' brute, Was that a place to set your foot Wi' heavy tread, An' crush the sangster's shrilly note, Amang the dead ? May never glen or mountain's brow, Wi' healthfu' herbage spring for you; May never chrystal fountain spew For you its store, But in revenge, may every cow, Your buttocks gore. When winter comes an' strips the plain O' autumn's yellow waving grain, May ye neglected still remain Ty'd to the stake, An' see the fodder but an' ben, Your crib forsake. Lo! where the warbler prost'rate lies That us'd to greet the orient skies, While in the wood wi' kindred joys, , The choirsters sung, Till echo bore the varied noise, The gales along. 47

Beneath that tuft o' waving moss, O'erhung wi' taper piles o' grass, She plied her silent duty close, Frae morn to e'en, Within her lowly circle doss, Fu' neat an' clean. Nae doubt her fondly flutt'ring heart, That long'd to act the mother's part, Did aft wi' various throbbings start, As causes rose, To wake the latent lurking smart, Or calm compose. But ah ! amidst the hopes an' fears, The rising joys an' sinking cares, That every transient bliss impairs, The ox's path Stole slyly on her unawares, The tread of death. Then in a gory mass below, The brittle eggs in pieces go, While her last agonizing throe, She wreathing wrings, An' a sad spectacle of woe, Extends her wings. In vain for her will summer's heat, Abroad the chirping broods invite, In vain for her, her tender mate Will weep an' wail, Her destiny is now complete, An' sad the tale. 48

A mangl'd carnage strews her nest, (Design'd the place o' joy an' rest,) The mother's speckl'd downy breast, Deep stain'd wi' blood, An' underneath, to jelly prest Her future brood. O destiny ! thou deals it hard, To thee obedient lark an' lord Must bend, nor murmur out a word, When thy behest Unsheaths the high commission'd sword, In terror dress'd. By seeming chance the bird o' wing, The humble beggar, scepter'd king, The vacant youngster in the ring, Are swept away, As is the short-liv'd breath o' spring, Or morning ray.

A CAUTION

TO THE KIRKINTILLOCH CLOTH MERCHANTS, Rendered necessary from recent alarming occurrences, July, 1S16. Ye merchant lads wha by the ell, Wi' ony tailor maist can tell, What a thick fallow like myseP O' claith will tak', To put a decent Sunday's shell, Upo' his back,

" 49

If ye wad wish lang to retail, O' brats o' claise the pick^jn' wail, An' keep your credit stout an' hale, An' clear your scores, Tak care o' them wha come halesale, To bore your doors. For if the billies ance get through, Then afF gaes black, gaes broun an' blue, Or if baptized at Waterloo, Their tastes 'twill fit, " For a' is fish wi' them, I trow, Comes i' the net." Napkins, stockin's, hats an' shoon, An' by my faith, or a' be done, They'll in their pouch pit the last roon O' a' your stock, Syne bid you sing a sober croon, Till they come back. An' since to keep us quiet an' gude, Alang wi' claes ye furnish food, Whereon at meals we chew our cud, An' staunch our hunger, Be at the mercy of the rude, Dear sirs, nae langer. For at this time when siller's scarce, An' trade clean coupit on her a-se, Mischief is reckon'd but a farce; For meat an' claes Sic tricks we ne'er had to rehearse, In a' our days. E 50

The truth o' this you lately saw, The time an place no' far awa', "Whan ane as gude's amang you a', Did suffer sair, Mair than lang towmonths ane or twa Will e'er repair. They had nae mercy then atweel, They nearly roup'd the soncy chiel, Hard is the heart that disna feel For his disaster; The wretch, I'd sen' him to the d — 1, His lord an' master. Now to prevent baith him an' you, Sic crosses e'er frae coming through, I'll tell you a' what ye shou'd do, If ye be wise, An' if my counsel's gude an' new, Tak' my advice. Wi' plates o' aim as hard as steel, Line a' your winnock shutters weel, Your doors secure them frae the drill, Wi' the same stuff, Till they a' rattle, ring an' reel, Firm plunder proof. Then ye may lock your shops at e'en, In presence of a foe or frien', Yet no regard a single prin, His min' or might, An' i' the morning fresh an' clean, Fin' a' things right. '• i 51

That nane o' you may e'er again At unawares sae sair be ta'en, Is, sirs, the wish o' mony a ane, As weel as me, Then to conclude, I say amen, " So let it be."

LINES PASTED UP ON THE SHOP DOOR OF MR. T M ,

MERCHANT EIRINTILLOCH, Which was broken into, and a very large quantity of Goods and Money carried off, July, 1816. NOTICE. Mr. Moffat solicits the public, and begs That they call at his counter by day, Where they'll find himhe hopes still alert on his legs, To their orders attention to pay. His shop it is open at regular hours, For the purpose of daily retail; But declines for the future the boring of doors, To effect any midnight wholesale.

LINES WROTE ON LIBERATING A LARK From the Bird-catcher's Snare — January, 1800. Alas ! poor warbler o' the skies, Thou fetter'd low convulsing lies, Disorder'd plumes, an' frantic eyes Proclaim thy woe, Betray'd when brooding tempest rise, An' drifting snow. £2 5S

That wicked noose o' twisted hair, Does hard upo' thy ancle bear, Thy slender ancle, taper, fair, That pressed the dew At morning dawn, when high in air, Elate thou flew. Alas ! tis no the grassy blade, Bent wi' a diamond at its head, Entangled thee, as round thou pla^d The thistle stem, Or shelter'd in its prickly shade, When evening came. No — harmless captive — godlike man Does thus for thee destruction plan, When nature's visage pale an' wan, Bids thee repair Wi' timid wing, the snow to fan, An' crave his care. 'Tis thus he grateful does repay The warblings o' thy early lay, Pour'd cheerful when the morning grey Began to dawn, An' rising mists in smoky play, To leave the lawn. For this he threw the sandy seed, Upo' the wreathy snmmit's head, Thy unsuspecting steps to lead, To meet thy doom, An' mourn, confin'd, thy native mead, Wi' ruffl'd plume. 53

Perhaps in ambush lurking nigh, He views thee with exulting eye, An' grins the savage smile o' joy, That breasts inflame, Where a' the finer feelings lie In dormant shame. Tis not enough for him to see The raging tempest rend the tree, An', 'mid the snowy drifting, thee Sore pinch'd wi' want, He snares for thy poor liberty, Must artful plant. But disappointed let him rave, Thy life, thy liberty, I'll save, Unfetter'd now the gift receive, That nature will'd, Enjoy it as she bounteous gave, In grove or field. Yes, little warbler, wing thy way, Athwart the dusky azure grey, Where snowy flakes incessant play, An' pinching frost, To where pale Phoebus' chilly ray, Gilds yonder coast. Secluded then from trap or snare, Look o'er thy scanty bill o' fare, Whar nae engines o' hemp or hair Will thee molest, An' for thy wants thyself prepare, As suits thee best. £s 54

Now grateful upward quick thou springs, On liberty's distended wings, A sight that pity's bosom brings More lasting joys, Than to the brave the breath o' kings, When men destroy.

THE WASHING DAY.

Domestic ills, some great some sma', Are sure the common lot o' a% Some bitter bite, some lighter fa', As on they play, But, L— d, that term keep far awa', The washing day. That Weary day when morning breaks, The noise o' amry doors an' snecks, In bed the drowsy wight perplex, Wi' craiking cry, An' creeshy brats, an' foul sark necks,. Confused lie. The mistress pert, or forward maid, For straggl'd claise explore his bed, They toss him o'er frae side to side, Wi' bosoms bare, An' ban his lazy drowsy hide, For lying there. 55

Then soon the meikle tubs are planted, An' every brat wi' sape anointed, The bare-foot hizzies souple jointed, Pursue the toil, An' side by side in rows they're fronted, In rank an' file. The burn is drain'd for reekin' water, The frothy suds the floor bespatter, The wring o' clouts incessant clatter, Mak' hell on earth, The kitchen's just a common gutter, Frae door to hearth. In vain ye'll try to set your nose in, The smell o' w — h an' cleansing rosin, The attempt for ever are opposin' ; An' what is mair, There's no a spot ye can repose in, On stool or chair. On every stool there is a cog, A dirty clout or maister mug, Enough to mak' a body ug, Tho' stumock tight, Or in their nostrils clap a plug, To keep a' right. Nor is this a', nor meat nor drink Ye'll get, nor time to speak or think, But hunger thole, and vexin' stink, Frae morn till e'en, Till every brat, tho' black as ink, Is white an' clean. 56

At ilka meal they sham ye o'er, Wi' what ye had the day before, An' e'en to that a scanty store, A prospect wae, Ye o' your belts may draw a bore, On washing day. Or if the sky should chance to low'r, An' threat the prone descendant shower, Mae trials yet ye maun endure, An' sit on pikes, Your only hope they'll now obscure, Wi' winter-dykes. They'll plant them up before the fire, Wi' smokin' duddies tire on tire, Nae harbour there, to barn or byre Ye may set out, An' bite your thumbs wi' silent ire, Amang the nowt. On every pirk the clouts are clashing, An' dreeping duds announcing washing, E'en Job himsel', wad, in a passion Blaspheme the day, When roun' his chafts the fatt'rels lashing, Did vex him sae. Then smoking o'er the smoothing linen, The polish'd goose is cheeping rinning, The en', akin wi' the beginning, Is rank confusion — L — d keep me ony mair frae sinning, I'm near conclusion. 57

O' a' the ills poor mortals share, The loss o' wealth or labour sair, At plough or cart, thro' dub an' lair Incessant plashing, I count them a' as light as air, Compar'd wi' washing.

*^*%v%*^*** VERSES Wrote on contemplating the SPORTS OF A SMALL WEASEL, Thoroughly Domesticated.

On Nature in her wildest haunts, 'Mong mossy muirs an' hills o' ants, Abhorring still the social rants O' mankind giddy, The learn'd philosopher descants, Wi' labour'd study. He strives to prove the savage kind As those no social laws can bind ; That dread o' man deep in the mind O' a' implanted, Is (in his theory) we find, Ne'er yet surmounted. I dinna like to ca' him liar, For that wad set the learn'd on fire, As little do I like to tire Wi' disputation, Sin' I can gi'e, for little hire, Plain demonstration. 58

The weasel, tenant o' the wild, Frae mankind's footsteps far exil'd, Yestreen, nae farther gane, I held In sportive glee, While pleas'd, the nimble stranger toil'd Aroun' my knee. Now tumbling quick about my arm, Or panting in my pocket warm, Now starting wi' a false alarm Behin' my coat, Wi' social soft endearing charm, It jinking got. Sae far was dread or fear o'ercome, It fondly nibbl'd at my thumb, Or frisking wi' the tasty crumb O' beef or cheese, Or dancing to the fiddle's thrum, Ilk guest to please. Nae kitten, fam'd for fun an' tricks, Can to the weasel ha'd the sticks, Nae pup wi' fonder kindness licks Its master's tae, When the weak dread that a' restricts Is done away. Yet these domestic favours share, An' in the cottage form a pair, While victim o' the chilly air, Blawn frae the north, The weasel wanders here an' there, Shy peeping forth. 59

Thus education forms the soul, The savage that in woods does prowl, Or joins wi' his the tyger's howl, In kindness tam'd, Soon finds aroun' the social bowl, His heart inflam'd. 'Tis mankind makes the world his foe, The timid hare, the bounding roe, On man their trust wou'd soon bestow, Were not the dread Of his menacing cruel blow, Hung o'er their head. Then wherefore thus shou'd erring man, Still thwart great nature's social plan, 'Tis he alone, no other can, The gap cement, That thro' harmonious order ran, On sin's event. Yes, rather let him mild entreat The exile wild to lick his feet, The fox an' lamb in bonds to meet Of amity, Till savage tribes in concord sweet, Around him lie. 60

VERSES

WROTE ON THE COMPETITON OF PIPERS

At Edinburgh, during the Races.

When roun' the san's o' Leith the cattle, For plate or purse like fury brattle, An' mony an aiver tries his mettle, To beat his brither, An' jockies sly, on seats right kittle, Jolt ane anither. Tis then that Enbro' is thick swarming Wi' new amusements sweet an' charming, Some novelty's fond bosom warming, Wi' raptur'd joy, While ithers wi' pale fear alarming, True mirth destroy. Amang the rest, that institution, They ca' the bagpipe competition, That's lately grown the bon-ton fashion Wi' great an' sma', I think, for honour o' the nation, Clean dings them a'. For there ye'U see auld Caledon, Wi' rustic manners draw the drone, Which lang-syne minstrels play'd upon In days o' yore, Wi' mony a norlan' Niel an' John, Some twa-three score.

> 61

Frae Caithness an' the isle o' Skye, Ye'll meet M«Donald, an' M«Kay, Wi' bounding bosoms beating high, Or M«Intyre Frae Mull, his martial skill to try, Wi' hope on fire. There one by one, the bag they fill, An' touch the pibroch's plaintive swell, That melts the soul wi' sorrow's thrill, For heroes slain, Then fires it on the foe to kill, Wi' might an' main. " Is there that bears the name o' Scot, " But feels his heart's bluid rising hot," To hear the martial sounding note Salute his ears, That rous'd to cut th' invader's throat, His auld forbears. No — faith I would pronounce him bastard, Curs'd wi' a spirit low an' dastard, An' swear his saul was never foster'd Amang the Scots, Wha didna fin' his valour muster'd, By sicken notes. For this they deal the darling prize, A martial pipe o' warlike size, Frae which the waving ribbon flies In gaudy state, An' deck'd to please the gainer's eyes, Wi' silver plate. F 62

Then blushing wi' his badge o* honour, Blate Donnel thanks the smiling donor, Then lilts a Gaelic spring upon her, Wi' ready slight, To see if bag an' a' that's on her, Be right an' tight. As soon as e'er the pipe is won, Then quick begins the cheering fun, Strathspeys an' reels frae ilka drone Inspiring ring, To lead in sprightly order on, The " Hi'lan' fling." Then nimble swankies stive an' Strang, As ever wore a brogue or whang, To some heart-cheering Hi'lan' sang Display their skill, The native graces that belang To nature still. To their ain fav'rite norlan' jigs, They caper roun' like whirligigs, Till a' their cutty philabegs Amaist reveal, What Nature on her modest legs Begs to conceal. But ere they wad mistime a note, They wadna care a single groat, To cast their tartan petticoat, Before them a', Altho' the ladies shou'd by lot, Themsel's withdraw.

\ 63

Then fair-fa' a' your honest hearts, May heaven ay gi'e you your deserts, That thus tak' nor'lan' callans parts, In pipe or dance, Despising a' the monkey arts That come frae France. Lang patronize their martial piping, Wi' loud applause in word an' writing, Their «« Hi'lan' fling," their nimble skipping, An' a' that tends To mak' the Norlan's north o' Kippen, Your steady friends.

F2 64

JUBILEE FOR JUBILEE;

OB, FIFTY YEARS SHEPHERD, FOR FIFTY A KING.

An Address to his Majesty, by an old Inhabitant of the Grampian Hills, 20th October, 1809.

Frae the Grampian heights, will the royal ear hear it, An' listen to Norman the Shepherd's plain tale? The north win' is blawing, an' gently will bear it, Unvarnish'd an' honest, o'er hill an' o'er dale. When Lon'on it reaches, at court, Sire, receive it, Like a tale you may read it, or like a sang sing, Poor Norman is easy, but you may believe it, I'm fifty years Shepherd, you're fifty a King.

Your jubilee then, wi' my ain I will mingle, For you an' myseP twa fat lambkins I'll slay; Fresh turf I will lay in a heap on my ingle, An' wi' my auld nei'bours I'll rant out the day. My pipes that I play'd on lang-syne, I will blaw them, My chanter I'll teach to lilt over the spring, Mydronesto the tune I will roun'an' roun'thrawthem, " O' fifty years Shepheid, an' fifty a King."

The flock o' Great Britain ye've lang weel attended, The flock o' Great Britain demanded your care; Frae the Tod an' the Wolf they've been snugly defended, An' led to fresh pasture, fresh water, an' air. 65

My flocks I ha'e led day by day o'er the heather, At night they aroun' me ha'e danc'd in a ring; I've been their protector thro' foul an' fair weather, I'm fifty years Shepherd, you're fifty a King.

Their fleeces I've shorn frae the cauld to protect me, Their fleeces they gave when a burden they grew; When escap'dfraethes^rars, theirs looks did respect me, Sae the flock o' Great Britain still looks upo' you. They grudge not their Monarch a mite o' their riches, Their active industry is ay on the wing; Then you an' me, Sire, I think are twa matches, I'm fifty years Shepherd, you're fifty a King.

Me wi' my sheep, Sire, an' you wi' your subjects, On that festive day will baith gladly rejoice; Our twa hoary heads will be fu' o' new projects, To please our leal vassals that mak' us their choice. Wi' sweet rips o' hay I will treat a' my wethers, The juice o' the vine to your lords you will bring; The respect they ha'e paid us is better than brithers, I'm fifty years Shepherd, you're fifty a King.

My crook I will dress in the relics o' summer, My dog I'll gi'e butter that day to his bread; An' to my wee cabin I'll welcome each comer; The frien' that has plenty, an' stranger in need. Ye'll sure do the same, tho' naebody broach it, Ye've plenty o' beef, butter, labsters, an' ling, An' routh o' musicians to strike up the crotchet, " O' fifty years Shepherd, an' fifty a King." FS 66

My hame is the cottage that Norval was bred in *, You live in the palace your ancestors rear'd; Nae guest uninvited dar'd come to our weddin', Or ruthless invader pluck us by the beard. Then thanks to the island we live in, whar shipping Swim roun' us abreast, or like geese in a string; For safe I can say, as my brose I am sipping, I'm fifty years Shepherd, you're fifty a King.

But ah ! royal George, an' ah ! humble Norman, Life to us baith now draws near to a close; The year's far awa' that has our natal hour man, The time's at our elbow that brings us repose. Then e'en let it come, Sire, if conscience acquit us, A sigh frae our bosoms death never shall wring; An' may the neist jubilee 'mang the saints meet us, To hail the auld Shepherd, an' worthy auld King.

ALL THE HOPE I HAVE

Since life is far advanc'd, and few The friends that feel for me, Their pity cold as autumn dew, Upon the fading tree.

• Vide Douglas Tragedy. 67

That want and dumb dependence dire My future days may brave, And let me trim my little fire, Is " all the hope I have."

I cannot now, with ardour keen, As when my pulse beat high, Amid life's busy scenes be seen, With hope-illumin'd eye- That dull dejection may not damp, That ardour I wou'd save, And let me trim my little lamp, Is " all the hope I have."

O ! independence leave me not In life's obscure decline, But let vayjire, my lamp, my cot, To my last hour be mine. That I may ne'er be forc'd to rise Like a poor servile slave, When a sour look wou'd so advise, Is "all the hope I have."

Perhaps imprudence I may blame, That I am so obscure, And that the honours of my name Are blazon'd with the poor. Let this reproach still be my oten, That privilege I crave, That I deserve no other's frown, Is «« all the hope I have." 6S

But shou'd the destinies decree That I must suffer so, And that my latter days and me Must kiss the cup of woe; That heaven will make the trial short, And shield me in the grave, (Tho' not a tear shou'd me escort) Is " all the hope I have."

INSTINCTIVE FIDELITY;

OR, THE SHEPHERD AND TRAY.

Damp blew the breeze, and dark was the heath, Where Lubin, sad Lubin reclin'd; His bosom was chill'd with the horrors of death, And the night-bird did scream in the wind. Long, long had he wander'd, and long had he sped, In sorrow his cottage to spy, When night drew a vail o'er his curtains of red, And vapours low lower'd on the sky.

His flocks that had wander'd, drew him from his home, His flocks that ne'er used to stray; He went to find out where their footsteps did roam, His companions his pipe, crook, and Tray. 69

O'er many a heath, and o'er many a wild, He sought them, they wander'd so wide; Till Tray that with frisking his footsteps beguil'd, Now pensively trode by his side.

Fatigu'd with the search he did urge thus in vain, The Shepherd in sorrow return'd; He sigh'd for his cottage that smok'd in the plain, And his hearth that so cheerfully burn'd. Around him the clouds, deep and deeper did lower, The heath was confin'd in a ring; Damp on his locks hung the vapour's thick shower, And sad flash 'd the owl's hoary wing.

Then faint and despairing 'mong long waving fern, He flung himself down with a sigh, No trace of a footstep his eye could discern, No track of a star in the sky. Night clos'd her dim curtains, how dark! andhow drear! Despair laid fast hold of his mind ; His dog sung his dirge, as he howl'd thro' the air, How faithful his dog, and how kind !

He pillow'd the swain on his soft glossy back, His tongue lick'd his death pallid cheek ; And the anguish that Lubin's lone bosom did rack, Tray's howlings did loudly bespeak. Together they died on the trackless expanse, Together they went nor return'd ; Together they found were, poor Tray's parting glance, To Lubin's cold cheek round was turn'd. 70

A SIGH FOR THE PAST;

OR, SUCH THINGS WERE.

■ Busy meddling Memory In barbarous succession, mustered up Her past endearments.

When years were few, and thro' my veins Untainted ran the sanguine flood, Perpetual verdure deck'd the plains, And music wak'd the listening wood. The gurgling stream from yonder hill, Did wander sweetly thro' the grove; Pleas'd I pursu'd my devious will, And all was harmony and love; That now they're gone, my sighs declare, While I remember Such things were.

'Twas then I shar'd in every joy That prattling innocence cou'd boast A parent's love, the glittering toy, Now both for ever sadly lost ; 'Twas then I smiPd at every fear That frowns on life's maturer bloom, On pleasure's axle roll'd the year, And winter wafted his perfume; But ah ! those joys were fleet as air, Now I remember Such things were. 71

"When storms obscur'd the face of day, And short the sun his visit paid, When shut were all the haunts of play, Beneath cold winter's frowning shade; The cheering hearth I'd circle round, And listen with my youthful peers, The ancient dame the tales expound, Of sheeted ghosts and nightly fears; Then wildly at the legend stare, Now I remember Such things were.

Maturer grown, the little loves That flutter round the guiltless heart, That smiling conscience ne'er reproves, But bids them all their sweets impart; O'er me their chains they softly flung, And gently pierc'd my panting side, Of Delia then I raptur'd sung, And wish'd the blooming nymph my bride; But time did soon my bliss impair, And I remember Such things were.

But now such sweet delusions fly Before the fortune-checker'd beam That arches life's meridian sky, And dissipates each youthful dream ; The babbling rills, the flowery meads, Divested of enchantment now, Are chok'd with mud, o'errun with weeds, And mists obscure the summit's brow; Reflection drops a pensive tear, "" When she remembers Such things were. 72

Thrice happy I, if, from my mind, I cou'd the recollection drive Of happy loves, and kindred kind, And thus calamity survive. I then might hope to brave the storms With which I am around beset, And tho' the world were all in arms, Find out at last some safe retreat; Till such, oblivion is my share, I must remember Such things were.

THE AULD SAIR. *

Wrote Autumn, 1807, during the fatigues of Harvest.

Let years on years wi' rapid chace, Mak' feckless bairnies Strang, An' time and toil the sinews brace, Were souple, lank, and lang. Yet time and toils, ah! wae's my heart, My limb can ne'er repair, When stress'd, it le'es me in the dirt, A wearifu' auld sair.

* A dislocated ancle got many years since, and still infirm. 73

I grudge, I grudge, when o'er the rigs, I see the rustics rin, An' whisk about like whirligigs, Their labour to begin ; While I, still far behin' the rest, O'ercome wi' pain and care, Can neither toil, nor laugh, nor jest, But mourn wi' my auld sair.

A finger cut, a simple clout Cures in a day or two, A prin a tbristle can pike out, Tho' Strang as ever grew. A wristed thumb, an aching back, Ev'n these an' muckle mair, Are trifles a' — I'm on the rack O' torture wi' my sair.

Maist harvest ills a solace find, In calm refreshing sleep, A strain, its balmy pow'r can bind, A bandage saft an' cheap. The morn arrives, the reaper fresh, Anither day can dare, An' pliant bends like ony thrash, Unvex'd wi' an auld sair.

But darksome night in terror clad, Frowns on me frae the west, Wi' aching pain I gang to bed, Whar ithers gang to rest. G 74

How happy they in fortune's lap, . That fin' an easy lair, An' in her bosom tak' a nap, Regardless o' a sair.

But in fhe lap o' fortune laid, I ne'er shall fin' a cure, For me she ne'er her table spread, But mark'd me to endure. Then grant it fate, (if future bliss, This sacrifice require^) I may in Heaven ne'er cry alas! Nor sigh wi' an avid sair.

THE PARENTAL RELIC.

Addressed to a Snuff-horn of my Father's, on depositing it in my Chest, January, 1810, fifteen months after his death, to perpetuate his memory. V There lay thee down and take thy rest, And to my care aspire, Thou tenant of a father's vest, Long by a father's fire. How oft I've seen him turn thee round, And hold thee on his knee, A solace to life's ev'ry wound, For many wounds had he. 75 In musing mood thy pplish'd scroll, I've seen his fingers press, While looking at the blazing coal, That did the supper dress. Of luxury, his only cup, No other cup he sought, His thumb and finger still took up The antidote of thought.

On ready hinge thou open'd wide, To let him take a pinch, A steady friend that from his side, One hour wou'd never flinch. In joy, in grief, thou shar'd alike His pleasure or his pain, As these arriv'd, he quick wou'd strike Thy lid, and snuff again.

No silver ring, no burnished gem, Thy stopper doth adorn; On brass a pin hath scratch'd J. M. ; The year upon the horn. Yet these are dearer far to me, Than elegance and art, Their homely, plain rusticity, Is graven on my heart.

Rich decorations please the vain, They sparkle in the eye; But humble horn, I thee retain, That humbly I may sigh. G2 76

Thy wearer's image I'll review, He'll take thee in his hand, Each time I turn thee, as I'll do, While by my chest I stand.

With more regard I lay thee down, Than if thou were of gold, The boasted freedom of a town Now deputed to hold. A nobler freedom thou conreysj A freedom when alone, To lift thee up in after days, And mourn a father gone.

MY LITTLE NIECE.

Wrote on seeing a Brother's infantile Daughter in sore distress, December, 1809.

Ye Pow'rs who deal us out our woes, With an unerring hand Proportion ev'ry bitter dose, To what our strength can stand. Make not this little child the pill Of misery the price, Her parents' throbbing bosoms heal, And spare my little Niece. 77 Full well I know, for a first-born Their grief would be despair ; Tame sorrow. knows a way to mourn Affection cannot bear. Indulgent to their mutual sighs, Bid all their anguish cease, The painful tear wipe from their eyes, And spare my little Niece.

Restore her to her wonted wiles, The love of all to win, Those pleasing looks, those witching smiles, That dimpled on her chin ; That habit plump, like Cupid's print, When throwing lover's dice, Before his sanguine bow is bent, And spare my little Niece.

To physic I was ne'er a friend, Nor wou'd advise it here, A bolus never can suspend The anxious swelling tear. The thread of life so finely spun, No doctor's drug can splice, Let nature end what she's begun, Nor vex my little Niece.

Yet shou'd your firm decrees design To take this babe away, O! teach her parents to resign, Nor to despair a prey. G3 7* May they regard her as releas'd From this low vale of vice, And I myself look partly pleas'd, ^ To lose my little Niece.

THE HARVEST-HATCHD BROOD.

Wrote on seeing Nestlings new sprung in September.

When the fortunate songsters the care of their young Had surrender'd, to know them no more ; When their nests in the thickets dismantled hung, By the chill blasts of autumn all tore; A pair of poor Linnets sat perch'd on a spray, That wav'd to the wind in the wood, And seem'd by their chirping to chide the delay Of their newly-fledg'd harvest-hatch'd brood.

The poor little innocents timid and cold, To pinion the air were afraid; They sometimes their plumage essay'd to unfold, Then shrunk back again in the shade. I pity'd the young, for the parents I griev'd, I shed them a tear where I stood ; I wish'd from my heart that the wants were reliev'd, Of the newly-fledg'd harvest-hatch'd brood. 79

When viewing the season, and seeing their state, My mind it revolv'd on the cause, Why Nature had taught them to nestle so late, And made even a breach in her laws. In spring, she invites the fond songsters to pair, When the earth it is teeming with food; But seldom she proves so remiss in her care, As permit a poor harvest-hatch'd brood.

But why censure Nature, is Nature to blame For the ravages mankind commit; Her laws and her government still are the same, She never perverts them a whit. She only allows (when her views they are crost, And her general purpose withstood;) To the songster, in lieu of the time they have lost, The care of a harvest-hatch'd brood.

Ye sons of destruction, perhaps from the grove You've repeatedly hunted this pair, And smil'd as you plunder'd their pledges of love, And smil'd when you saw their despair. Till now when the cares of their fellows are past, And the sound of the tempest is loud, A look of anxiety fearful they cast, For the fate of their harvest-hatch'd brood.

Perhaps you still smile at compassion, and say, It is but the whim of a few; But wait the decision of time's latter day, And then if you can, you may do. 80

I will not assert that damnation's your lot, (I'm not in so sanguine a mood) But sure such offences will not be forgot, So think on the harvest-hatch'd brood.

AN EYE TOWARDS HOME.

" My heart untravell'd ever turns to thee."

GOLDSMITH.

Enterprising the Traveller ranging wild regions, Bids ambition his bosom with novelty fire, Undaunted he wanders, where wild savage legions Remote from refinement and study retire. He views their excursions, their warfare, their plunder, The size of the hut, and the height of its dome; And tho' he's amus'd with contemplating wonder, At times he looks back with " an eye towards home."

The Soldier brave, 'mid the thunder of battle, Forgets that grim death is that day on the wing, No music so sweet as the cannon's dread rattle, No honour so great as to fight for his King. When victory's gain'd, and the foe in disorder, Is this way and that seen for safety to roam, He turns from the carnage of legaliz'd murder, And wipes his brown face with " an eye towards home." 81

The Merchant advent'rous, the trackless wave plowing, His course to the Indies will steadily steer, The foot-ball of fortune with ardour pursuing, And grasp at the prize if the shadow appear. As soon as the bark has his wealth in her bowels, Her prow he will point to the far distant foam, And crowd all her yards with her canvass and towels, And turn on her quarter «« an eye towards home."

The Saint on a sick-bed all life's troubles closing, His hopes on a country far better will place, And view with serenity death interposing, To give him the prize at the end of his race. Yet in spite of his faith in celestial favour, That promises triumph and glory to come, Weak nature looks back with a languid endeavour, And turns on his pillow " an eye towards home."

Thus enterprise, bravery, adventure, religion, We follow thro' life like a light in the dark, But still we return, as did Noah's fam'd pigeon When sent on a mission one day from the ark. Let our pursuits thro' life from the Pole unto Indies, In far distant climates provide us a tomb, We hope to escape, that our country may find us, With the wish of our hearts, " and an eye towards home." 82

THE WOOD OF CRAIGMARLOCH.

Wrote June, 1816. (Near Kilsyth.)

Craigmarloch is craggy, Craigmarloch is steep, Craigmarloch is wide and is wild, In the caves of its rocks the sly foxes they creep, And the prey-birds they waken the echoes that sleep, In their dark flinty chambers exil'd. Craigmarloch is sullen, Craigmarloch is grave, Craigmarloch grim frowns to the north, And proudly looks over the slow creeping wave, That servilely offers his ancles to lave, As it winds from the Clyde to the Forth. * Craigmarloch is haughty, Craigmarloch is proud, Craigmarloch turns round from the sun, Despising the ray that would smile in the wood, When the sun of the summer looks out from the cloud, Till the sun of the summer is gone. Craigmarloch is chilly, Craigmarloch is bleak, Craigmarloch, in winter is seen With the blast of the north sticking close to his cheek, And the cold of a day is felt cold for a week, And the arctic frosts biting and keen. Craigmarloch is old, and Craigmarloch is grey, Craigmarloch is moss-grown with time, The sons of his youth are laid low in the clay By the axe of the woodman that passes this way, Nor reckons the murder a crime.

* The Great Canal which washes its very base. 88

Craigmarloch is shaven, Craigmarloch is shorn, Craigmarloch in brushwood is drest, Yet sweet on Craigmarloch's rude summit at morn, To look at the little green carpets of corn, When the rising sun purples the1 east.

OBSCURITY.

Where shall we find thy blossom's, truth, With all their kindred sweets, Where youth meets unsuspecting youth, And honest kindness greets. Where does the sympathetic tide Roll on in brightest purity? Ev'n where the heathy mountains hide Thy osier vale — Obscurity. -. There Virtue, hermit. Virtue, dwells Amid thy willow groves, And smiles within her cave, and tells Her humble hopes and loves. Dissimulation's dastard tale Ne'er steals the robe of verity, To wander masked thro' the vale, Thy osier vale — Obscurity.

Search city's for a native charm, The search is worse than vain ; There, Nature lives in close alarm, Or wears a servile chain. 84

But here within her fav'rite bow'rs, Her children reach maturity; And ornament like sweetest flow'rs Thy osier vale — Obscurity.

Here too that paradisian bliss That left us at the fall, Springs up, and the fraternal kiss Bestows on one and all. The peasant here no finger-post Erects to point futurity, Its waters wash thy very coast, Thou osier vale — Obscurity.

LINES

DIFFERENCE BETWIXT DUMB AND CLAMOUROUS GRIEF.

Tears are the shallows of sorrow, Silence the stagnated pool, The one leaves the cheek by to-morrow, The other sinks deep in the soul, Sighs are the breezes that follow The trickling drops of the show'r, And dry up the damp on the pillow, Has only been moisten'd an hour. 85

Groans in the bosom deep-seated, Show agony better than sighs, More rarely in public repeated, And never o'erflow at the eyes. But silence alone is the mirror, To look in for poignant despair; Like apathy treading on terror, She sits as if callous to care.

Consolation in vain is here proffer'd, The comforter's tongue is a plague* Grief's antidote vainly is ofFer'd, And ev'ry allurement is vague. Time only, if time is awaited, Can blunt the keen arrow of grief, Where medicine's pow'r is defeated, And bring the dumb patient relief.

But many the years in rotation May number the seasons anew, Ere sorrow will yield to starvation, And die on the soil where it grew. «« Tears are the shallows of sorrow, Silence the stagnated pool ; The on,i leaves the cheek by to-morrow, The other sinks deep in the soul."

H 86

THE

SOLITARY'S SMOKING SOLILOQUY.

All hail ! thou thought-inspiring steam, All hail! thou nightly curtain'd beam, That in my chamber winks; All hail! thou matted cob-web wall, Where drowsy spiders nightly crawl, Or slumber in the chinks. All hail ! familiar to my view, My ragged hangings, chequer'd blue, My table clad with dust ; My grate that holds my lktle fire, Where mouldy damps too oft conspire, All hail ! thy sacred rust. Retreat of meditation, hail ! While cliffs tremendous others scale, As wild ambition towers ; Ye well-known ensigns of my fate, Ye vouchers of my humble state, To night again I'm yours. Tonight, again, 'mid clouds of smoke, I smile at fate's impending stroke, That lays the mighty low; From fate 1 now disdain to fly, While hedg'd around with penury, He cannot hurt me— No. 87

This whiten'd tube ray arm extends, From which the volum'd smoke ascends, And wreaths its airy top, (Since friends are false and foes sincere) Is all the comfort now I share, My asylum and hope. Like smoke the faith of those is found, An empty puff', a tinkling sound, To soothe unto repose; While every steady art to wrong, With slander's scientific tongue, Is follow'd out by foes. Again my pipe with leaf I charge, Again the swelling clouds emerge, Again I drop a sigh ; Again my pipe, as oft before, In brittle fragments strews the floor, Where wide its relics lie. Then ye, pale ashes, cooling there, Ye clouds now spent aloft in air, Thou pipe in pieces broke, All on my heart this moral trace, A moral time shall ne'er efface, That life is but a smoke.

H2 88

THE DARK DAY OF FORTUNE.

Addressed to Myself, October, 1809.

The dark day of fortune hath long time been low'ring, Vapours and clouds have hung o'er my sky; Casual disasters have ofttimes been show'ring, To warn me in time from the tempest to fly- But I (you may know I'm no judge of the weather) Still after a rainbow look'd for a fair day ; Till life's prime I pass'd in pursuit of & feather, While others were busy in making their hay.

Now old and infirm, and by friends quite deserted, Life's retrospect pains me, its future does more; No balm will it yield to the wounds that have smarted. But hreatens to open afresh ev'ry sore. 'Twixt me and the grave how dark is the valley, Poverty meagre stares me in the face; Old age close behind him, looks timid and silly, While youth afar off hangs his head in disgrace.

This i* the picture that daily affrights me, Drawn from the life I'm afraid it is true; The dark shade around it in horror benights me, The atmosphere nowhere is chequered with blue. Unpitied, still I must meet all those terrors, Nay, calumny too, puts her gall in the cup; And bawls like a stentor, " the wretch, for his errors, " Deserves not to taste it, but drink it all up." 89

The wretched have sure still a title to pity, The great God of Nature hath order'd it so; Then they who on misery love to be witty, Shou'd first show the ticket exempts them from woe. Then great God who mademe, and made me notvainly, Of thy tender mercies o' grant me a share; Such a share as may show a weak scoffing world plainly, Tho' eraz'd from their list, I'm still under thy care.

THE HYND-BERRY BRAE.

A RETROSPECT OF JUVENILE PLEASURE.

When life it was life, an' when fancy was young, When pleasure wore garlands o' flowers, When the vespers o' Nature the choristers sung, In their bonny wee eglantine bowers; How happy was I, then I kent na weel how, Tho' now I'm convinc'd it was sae, When frae the rank blue-bells I skiff'd the clear dew That bloom on the Hynd-berry brae. 4 I kent na there was sic a thing as dull care, I car't na a fig for the morn, The flow'r o' the present I pu'd, an still mair I pu'd it, nor met wi' a thorn. How happy was I, &c. . HS 90

The spring had its pleasures, the simmer an' a', The pleasures o' simmer an' spring, Before I cou'd prize them, gat aff an' awa', Like geese when they flee in a string. How happy was I, &c.

On the Hynd-berry brae how aft did I pu' The fruit o' the rasp an' the brier, The bramble, the slae, an' the juniper too, An' a' the sweet gifts o' the year. How happy was I, &c.

The Hynd-berry brae is now bleak an' now bare, The berries are blighted wi' frost, I canna believe that it ever was there I felt those delights I ha'e lost. How happy was I, &c.

Thus retrospect views are the bane o' our bliss, Reflection still fondles the past; Wi' the tear in our e'e we look back for the kiss, We us'd wi' sic rapture to taste. We winna believe that the future has joys, We tell you it canna be sac; But muster the pleasures, the pleasures, when boys, We found on the Hynd-berry brae. 91

THE FLOWER OF YESTERDAY.

A SIMILE.

Swift flies our time on pinions fleet, Like vapours on the breeze ; The transient bliss we now call sweet, The passing moments seize. The gilded joy, the present hour, Soon wing themselves away; Departing like the fading flower That pleas'd us Yesterday.

Let beauty with her blooming charms, Enslave the lover's breast; Let rapture with her soft alarms, Deprive his soul of rest; The gilded joy, the present hour, Soon wing themselves away; Departing like the fading flower That pleas'd us Yesterday.

Let wealth with all his sparkling toys The miser's heart enslave; Let enterprise and warlike noise Inspire the daring brave; The gilded joy, the present hour, Soon wing themselves away, Departing like the fading flower That pleas'd us Yesterday. 92

Let sweet content like trickling streams, That thro' the meadows glide, Cheer with her soft domestic beams, The cottage fire-side. The gilded joy, the present hour, Soon wing themselves away, Departing like the fading flower That pleased us Yesterday.

Ask yonder pair with hoary locks Of silver shaded hue, If pleasure frisks with yonder flocks, Along their mountain's brow? They'll tell you pleasure with the hour, Still wings itself away, Departing like the fading flower That pleas'd us Yesterday.

Since transient are our blessings here, And joy so short its date, And mankind taught with sighs to bear, The lifted scourge of fate; Let him look forward to that clime, Where pleasures ever play, And no disparting hand of time Breaks in with Yesterday. 95

LINES ON THE DECAY OF LOCAL ATTACHMENT.

Wrote by a native of the Parish of Campsie, many years absent from it August, 1817.

" To me more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm, than all the gloss of art." GOIDSMITH, My native parish, how transform'd? Since first I knew thy face; My bosom is no longer warm'd, As I thy paths retrace. These paths, alas! are modell'd new, Their rural aspect gone ; The fav'rite bush I can't review, Nor yet the fav'rite stone.

Thy ancient hills alone remain From innovation free, Thy ancient hills alone constrain Parochial love from me. The Glazart stream, that once so pure Did thro' thy vallies glide, Meand'ring past the cottage door, And by the hamlet's side;

Is now a poison'd putrid rill, Diverted from its course, To drive the massy fulling mill, With all its frothy force. 94

A race exotic now have chang'd The hamlet to the town; Thy ancient natives quite unhing'd, Now sink supinely down.

Their pristine, pure simplicity Is valu'd now no more, The greedy arm of industry, Triumphant sweeps before. Where'er I walk, where'er I stop, I meet a stranger's eye; The grocer gazing from his shop, Says, " there's a stranger by."

The tavern where the hovel stood, Displays a gaudy sign, And oaths upon the ear intrude, Where accents rose divine. Where rustic labour us'd to toil, And wield the swinging flail, Machin'ry drinks the needed oil, Loud thund'ring in the gale.

" My native parish, how transform'dl Since first I knew thy face; My bosom is no longer warm'd, As I thy paths retrace." So

MY NEW COAT O' BLUE.

On receiving one of that Colour on a cold Evening, December, 1810.

The weather was cauld an' my claethirig was thin, My wants they were mony, my comforts were few; The best coat I had was my birth-day bit skin, For it lang had been to me a new coat o' blue.

I amaist had despair'd o' the fleece o' the sheep To spread on my shou'ders a swatch o' its woo', When in came the tailor (an' swore it was cheap) Wi' a nice ane to fit me, a new coat o' blue.

I look'd at the cut o't, but couldna weel tell If the fashion was auld or the tip o' the new; I saw it had buttons, a neck an' lapell, An' that was enough for my new coat o' blue.

The quibbles o' fops when a new ane they try, I ne'er in my life thought it right to allow; Sae a fau't in my ain I let ither fo'ks spy, Content to be clad in a new coat o' blue.

When the cut o' a coat is the index o' worth, The test o' true merit has little to do; An' sma' is their title to talents or birth, Wha think they're contain'd in a new coat o' blue. *> To flutter in rags is the badge o' the base, The wise still allow it, an' sae do I too, But moderate decency alters the case, Tho' the fop dinna strut in his new coat o' blue. 96

Granl, fortune, that I when this tunicle's torn, Be still humbly able its like to renew; An' never to envy a richer, tho' worn On the back o' an equal tho' better the blue.

An' lastly — integrity ever remain, To point out the path that my feet should pursue, That my name in the end may be found without stain, Like my coat at the present) my new coat o' blue.

It is this that embroiders the coat o' the clown, It is this that ennobles the team or the plough ; By this an' this only, I wish to be known, As I wander about in my new coat o' blue.

THE TYPE OF TENDERNESS.

A Eulogy on the benevolent disposition of Miss — — To Seraphina turn your eyes, W^ho taste the cup of woe ; Your wretchedness without disguise, Let Seraphina know. She is the softest kindest Miss, That e'er distress did greet, She is " the type of Tenderness," On Virtue's virgin sheet. « Her daily task is to relieve The friendless and forlorn, Her fond solicitude at eve, Her early care at morn. V 97

The downcast look of dumb distress, She's ever fond to meet ; She is " the type of Tenderness" On Virtue's virgin sheet.

Want's squallid children still are sure From her to find relief, While thousands who have twice the power, Are to their clamours deaf. Her aim is still to render less The sorrows they repeat; She is " the type of Tenderness" On Virtue's virgin sheet.

Sure Heaven to comfort indigence, Sent Seraphina down, His favours largely to dispense, With sweetness all her own. Her manner nothing can express, Her voice is Pity's bleat; She is " the type of Tenderness" On Virtue's virgin sheet.

Let commentators volumes write On Charity's soft deeds, Unless the heart and hand unite, A poor relief succeeds. The finest precept from the press, Is but an arrant cheat, Without the " type of Tenderness?' On Virtue's virgin sheet. I 98

LINES

Composed lying on the Couch where an aged Parent concluded his Pilgrimage. 21st October, 1808.

Extended here in health I lie, And occupy the space "Where late I saw a father die, And terminate his race. His race was long, his vital pow'rs Athletic were and strong, Tho' death had open'd wide his doors, He waited for him long.

The citadel of life as yet, Was from defection free, And scorned to capitulate, Whate'er the terms might be. But sore besieg'd by the stern foe, And robb'd of all supplies, Death's arrows laid his ramparts low, Too late to compromise.

That ceiling, I serenely view, He ey'd in pain severe, When covering clothes, tho' e'er so few, His frame could scarcely bear. And conscious, ah ! how often here, With filial care have I Borne up his head, and shed the tear Of tenderest sympathy. 99

His feeble cries when rais'd aloft, To spread his couch aright, Methinks I hear disturbing oft The watches of the night. His supplicating looks I see, When mov'd from side to side, Fast rivetted by pain on me, His hands extended wide.

Now vacant is the pillow where His aged temples lay, And absent is the filial care, That nurs'd his latter day. If ever age shall be my lot, May such a couch be mine, And this plain line my dust denote " Thy father's end is thine."

THE BIRD ON THE BUSH TOP

Wrote April, 1810.

The bird on the bush top in April is cheary, The bird on the bush top in April is gay ; December is gone with his snow blasts so dreary, That frost bit his feet on the cold crisped spray. Hark ! how he sings to his mate newly wedded, The song he compos'd for their nuptial joy, While arm'd with a pebble, by cruelty aided, His life is menac'd by the wandering boy. 12 100

Stop, little truant, untrue to thy duty, Nor threaten destruction to duty and love; The warbler (thy aim) wears the plumage of beauty, His mirth emanates from the goodness above.

The bird on the bush top in April is pretty, The bird on the bush top in April is neat, Harmony swells ev'ry note of his ditty, Health in the dew drop sits bathing his feet. Hark ! how he sings till the woods are made vocal, The song he compos'd for the season of bliss, While armed with beaks and with claws reciprocal, The hawk and his mate dart a look as they pass. Stop, cruel tyrants, nor wishfully eye him, The song that he sings is an anthem of praise; He's at his devotion, remotely pass by him, Or converts become as you list to his lays.

The bird on the bush top in April, poor creature, The bird on the bush top in April has foes; Some act from instinct, that strong law of nature, And others from habit, more wretched than those. Hark ! how he sings as if primitive union In the chain of society yet was unbroke, Or pow'r (that incentive to sov'reign dominion) The weak ne'er enslav'd, or laid lov»by a stroke. Stop, little bird, thou art sadly mistaken, Treachery lurks in the thicket and grove, Kingdoms oft by it are shatter'd and shaken, And weak is the empire of social love. 101

LOCAL IMPRESSIONS.

Wrote on revisiting my Paternal Mansion, after its being abandoned by its ancient and primitive Domestics, April, 1 809.

" Descend and place before my fancy's eye The play-things of my boyish days."

ODX TO MIMORY.

Ah ! what do I see, like the ghosts of the dead, Ev'ry object I once knew appear; The house is the same, but alas ! in the stead Of its inmates, strange lodgers are here. The bed I was born in, the pillow I prest, No longer to me are the same; In the linen of others exoticly drest, They all my affection disclaim.

How oft have I rambl'd these chambers within, And joyfully sported the day, Surrounded by friends, and the smiles of my kin, That laugh'd at my prattle and play. Now these chambers the footsteps of strangers resound, My friends, like myself, are all gone, My kin are divided and scatter'd around, And here now, alas ! there are none.

One poor lonely cat only, scorning the laws That mankind and mansions divide, I mournfully see, sit a licking her paws, And claiming her old fire side. I 3

r 102

In the spot where she's sitting, how oft have I sat, And listen'd the tales of my sire; I almost cou'd wish that myself were a cat, That I to her seat might aspire.

The chimney before her, that chimney to me By fond predilection belongs; So often I've seen it, methinks I now see A father stir it with his tongs. On the walls and partitions around, yet remain Some prints of my juvenile choice; While I view them, I leap into childhood again, And think they are wonderous nice.

O Time ! what a tyrant — terrestrial peace Thou rapidly robs of its charms, And cold is that wind oft in manhood's full face, That temper'd in infancy warms. Thou mansion paternal, that nurs'd me when young, Than a palace I'd rather review; Yet sad is the retrospect — meltingly strong, In tears I must bid thee adieu.

A FAREWELL TO PROSPERITY.

My youth it is gone, ev'n my manhood and prime Look forward to certain decay; The waste I have made of my fugitive time, Strikes my bosom with fear and dismay. * 103

My passions and habits with despotic rule, Treat a sigh of regret with asperity ; They kick or allure me by turns like a fool, Farewell, and adieu to prosperity.

To add to my sufPrings, now maimed for life, In a contest which Bacchus had rais'd, With tears I look back to the cause of the strife, And at times on the limb I have craz'd. I see that for ever, disabl'd 1 must Resign ev'ry act of dexterity, And till my poor fabric is laid in the dust, Bid a lasting adieu to prosperity.

By friends I'm neglected, the grave and the wise My society studiously shun, While the bosom less cruel, that scorns to despise, In a whisper cries, " ah ! you're undone." That truth I confess, with a bosom that's torn, That truth I confess in sincerity ; With the views of my state, to despair I am worn, Farewell, and adieu to prosperity.

But why thus remind me of what I am now, Without ever striving to raise The load of misfortune, that makes me to bow, And waste in dumb sorrow my days. It is just like giving calamity's whip, By a tear at a distance, severity; The aid is but weak of the eye or the lip, To restore a poor wretch to prosperity. 104

Ye pow'rs, who, for ends to yourselves only known, Have allow'd me to wallow in guilt, Who have seen my contrition, have heard ev'ry groan, And witness'd each pang I have felt. 0 ! screen me from that sad reserve yet in woe, Dependent to live upon charity ; 1 ask you but this — I've no prospect below, But to bid an adieu to prosperity.

A PRAYER

Sunday, 19th June, 1814.

Thou God of mercy, God of love, And God of pity's tear, Thy sympathizing bosom move, And shed thy pity here. Behold a wretch before thee bend With supplicating eye, Who sees a world without a friend To censure or to sigh.

My view of life without thy aid, Without thy tender care, Is bounded by the gloomy shade, The curtain of despair. Around I look, but not a ray Of hope illumes my path, And as I tread my weary way, I tread the courts of death. 105

Privations of each trying kind Have left me to my fate, I naked wrestle with the wind, And with the rain debate. No hand is stretch'd to succour me, No eye is bath'd in dew, No foot will stem the flood to see If I may flounder through.

And last of all, to crown the whole, And make my woe complete, Old age looks from his frozen pole, And mounts his icy seat. He prints the wrinkle on my brow No art can wipe away, My raven locks he seizes too, And tips their points with grey.

But thou, O God ! canst age defeat, Canst make me young in grace, Canst clothe me, and canst give me meat, And be my dwelling place. In thee I trust, be near me still, And I the world defy, Aad let my foes be who they will, I'll scorn their, scorning eye. 10(j

WEEKLY TO MY NATAL SPOTT

Wrote September, 1814.

Let apathy to local ties The local feelings spurn, And proudly cry " philosophize, Nor let the child return." I hear it as I heard it not, And let it scold away, I weekly to my natal spot, Will still a visit pay.

Why stigmatize me as a child, For feelings so innate, A love to be where long I smil'd, And pass'd my infant state. Such scenes can never be forgot, Tho' distant far the day; So weekly to my natal spot, I'll still a visit pay.

Dear natal spot, still doubly dear, As life from thee recedes, Thou long shall claim the filial tear That warm devotion sheds. Tho' never more it be my lot, Within thy bounds to stay, I weekly to my natal spot Will still a visit pay. 107

Tho' love paternal now no more Invite my steps to thee, And love fraternal ope' its door With a cold hand to me. Within my breast an antidote Bids me no fear betray, But weekly to my natal spot A steady visit pay.

With ev'ry tree, with ev'ry stone, Acquaintance I renew, I name them over one by one, As once I us'd to do. Their early, titles all by rote, I either sing or say, As weekly to my natal spot I still a visit pay.

These dumb associates try'd and true, Still welcome me again, And as 1 bid them all adieu, All wish me to remain. No fickle change their looks denote, The same the stone, the spray, As weekly to my natal spot I still a visit pay.

Ah ! why alone is changeling man The only friend that fails, When Nature's universal plan Looks o'er its long appeals. 108

'Tis he alone with looks remote, That wounds me with dismay, As weekly to my natal spot I still a visit pay.

TEARS ARE THE TRIFLES OF WOE

When young and afflicted I likewise cou'd cry, My sorrows distilPd in a shower, The anguish I suffer'd cou'd float in my eye, And ebb with the tide of the hour. Like the sun in the morning, a smile cou'd exhale The drops as they hung in a row, But now sad experience confirms me the tale, That tears are the trifles of woe.

Like shallows in rivers these juvenile tides, Are known by their gurgling din, A few puny pebbles distracts and divides The serpentine course that they spin. In a pool, when collected, tho' prick'd underneath, By the rocks that lie lurking below, The zephyr flies o'er them — all's silent as death, For tears are the trifles of woe.

Thus I, in the hall of adversity school'd, A tear now solicit in vain, My heart cannot soften, tho' once of that mould, And dry is the* fount of my brain. 109

A sigh I can heave — but it is such a sigh As none but the wretched can know, For light is the grief that appears in the eye, And tears are the trifles of woe.

Let the volatile smile at the griefs I endure, And name them the whims of the mad, Where the twirl of a napkin was ever the cure, Of all the distresses they had. Let them stay till dark years of misfortune are past, The stream may less easily flow, And they in deep anguish, acknowledge at last, That tears are the trifles of woe.

O! Heav'n, if thy mandate against me is seal'd, And I am for ever to mourn, O! let not this comfort (tho' small) be withheld, That the founts of my brain may return. Let me as in infancy, ease my swollen heart, Tho' the tide it be tardy and slow, It may steal from my anguish a part of the smart, Tho' tears are the trifles of woe.

A PRAYER By the Bed-side of a dying aged Parent, Sunday, 16th October, 1808.

Almighty Father, in whose hand Are all our days and years, We sprung to life at thy command, With all our hopes and fears. K 110

Precarious is the lease we hold, Of this thy vital air, And few, till they are very old, In such indulgence share.

For oft the babe at morning dawn, Sinks in a sable cloud, Its swaddling clothes of finest lawn, Chang'd for the ghastly shroud. Yet here reclines the hoary head, Upon the couch of woe, To all but those around him dead, Of all he e'er did know.

Then, gracious Father, kindly come, Be his companion here, And let bis chamber be thy home, Until he disappear. Tho' busy life hath him forgot, As if already gone, Do thou, O God ! forget him not, Be thou his stay alone.

When dissolution comes at last, (As come it shortly will,) May death's dark river smoothly pass'd, Seem but a bubbling rill. Let faith's strong grasp of future bliss, His painful fears destroy; And all his present sore distress, Be lost in endless joy. Ill

His many years, in reckoning them, Each misspent day forget — His num'rous sins, O! lay on him Who paid the sinner's debt. Then, Heavenly Father, graciously My weak petition hear, My heart thou seest in ev'ry sigh, My wish in ev'ry tear.

THE PHANTOM OF FATE.

1813.

Dark was the night in the month of December, Sad by the side of my ingle I sat, Pale was the glare of its last dying ember, That shone on the wool of a kitten and cat. Puss on the hearth with her soft downy daughter, Was sunk in the arms of a balmy repose, Tir'd with those gambols that generate laughter, To bosoms at ease and remote from their woes.

Silence reign'd round me in black solemn sable, Nothing was heard but the click of the clock, A glass of cold water, half drank on the table, A pipe of tobacco, prepar'd for a smoke. Clos'd were my eyes in a fit of dejection, Cursing my folly, and counting my crimes, Asking of Heav'n its sacred protection, And of that protection despairing at times. K2 112

When soft mov'd my door at the touch of the handle, Soft was the tread of a maid o'er the floor, She brought in her hand the pale light of a candle, And looking the clock, she said " one is the hour." Then turning to me with her eyes sunk and hollow, Haggar'd with grief, and harrass'd with care, " Wretched," she said, " is thy state, thou poor fellow, The dupe of dejection, the dupe of despair.

" Thy footsteps I've follow'd from infancy onward, Till manhood is wasted in folly and guilt, Thy progress thro' life (without aim) has been down- ward, Consider, poor mortal, how keenly I've felt. Here now thou sitt'st without friend or wellwisher, Deserted by kindred, to knavery a prey, With Poverty lank thy sole " gentleman usher," To welcome the morning, or close the sad day.

" Think erring mortal, nor longer in stupor, The sport of thy passions, run headlessly on, Life, tho' a dream, is far denser than vapour, And few with a smile can say, " well, it is gone." Rise and be active, set want at defiance, Those habits subdue that have made thee their sport, With virtuous industry, haste, form an alliance, Till Competence name thee as one of her court.

" So shall the part of thy life yet remaining, Cancel all the odium attach'd to thy noon, As oft have I seen rise more bright at her waning, The half-wasted orb of the long clouded moon." 113

Then quickly her candle she set on my table, A book by its side she as instantly laid, With a leaf doubl'd down at an opposite fable, And pointing the place, with a curtsey she fled.

A PRAYER For Peace of Mind, under the pressure of Misfortune.

O ! Thou who stay'st the troubl'd sea, When waves terrific roar, Look down, O God! and smile on. me, And peace of mind restore. My bosom, like a breezy flood, Still meets the mad'ning wind, Spring-tides of vice still heave my blood, Depriv'd of peace of mind.

Long, long forsook by mental peace, My bosom dark has been, Where sunshine with its airy fleece, Has never once been seen. But sable clouds, thick, tempest-borne, Their midnight skirts have join'd, And wrapt me round, a wretch forlorn, Depriv'd of peace of mind.

O God! thou know'st the pangs I feel, When prest by poignant woe, O! give me not the pointed steel, Or poison'd cup to know. Ks 114

But give me in my wild distress, On thee my hopes to bend, To supplicate in tears, redress, By asking peace of mind.

The ills by callous mortals brav'd, O'erwhelm me in despair, That want by which alone they're sav'd, Makes me their wretched heir. My mind, acute, too much can taste The gall some never find; Thus still my years they run to waste, Depriv'd of peace of mind.

Once more, O God ! to thee I call, Thou know'st my very heart; Remove, kind Heav'n this cup of gall, Or give me but a part. Or grant me (like some others round) A stomach doubly lin'd, That I may swallow life's compound, With seeming peace of mind.

THE SOLITUDE I WISH FOR.

An hermitage I do not choose, I am not quite an anchorite, Tho' more than some I am recluse, I scorn to leave the world in spite. 115

I love a friend just now and then, A friend I need not blush for, Then pleas'd with such, I fully gain The solitude I wish for.

A little house I have remote, Tho' near to the metropolis, Whose simple door is seldom shut, Or open'd by its populace. The luxuries my table spread, With rod and line I fish for, And thus I've (while the stream I wade) The solitude I wish for.

From cattle on the hills that stray, Altho' they're not my property, 1 purchase milk, and let me say, I seldom taste the hop or tea. The bev'rage of the lowing flock, I have a little dish for, My water trickles from the rock — Such solitude I wish for.

I keep my cot at small expense, A dog and cat my family, The former takes the name of Chance, The latter Tabby Emily. . And ev'ry small emergency I have a little cash for, To treat a friend, when come to see The solitude I wish for. 116

Then thus thro' life to slide along, In peaceful calm obscurity, With little done that's grossly wrong, My prayer is in verity ; To do that good, too low my sphere, That patriots make a push for, Content to find, and find it here, The solitude I wish for.

AUTUMN'S REAR IS WINTER'S VAN. Wrote October, 1806.

The seasons roll, the hand of time Propells successive change along, Thus are we try'd in ev'ry clime, With tempest, sunshine, grief and song. Now we the era would prolong, That limits Nature's cheering span, But Robin the dull woods among, Sings autumn's rear is winter's van.

But late the jovial reaper train, Their sickles brandish'd o'er the field, Swept from the plain the bending grain, And saw it teeming plenty yield. Now strawy roofs the treasure shield, All's done that human prudence can, And this sad truth is solemn seal'd, That autumn's rear is winter's van. 117

Already crusting infant frosts Creep o'er the nightly falling dews, Already faint ideal coasts, The eye upon the pane pursues. Already Nature's foliage strews Her sickly honours pale and wan, And ev'ry thing around allows That autumn's rear is winter's van.

The flocks, the herds, confess this truth, And to the crib and shelter run, And dull diverging to the south, Broad in the mist appears the sun. Around is heard the murd'ring gun, The deadly flash illumes the pan, Dread Nature's ruin is begun, For autumn's rear is winter's van.

Our lives, our years, like seasons are, In spring we germinate and blow, In summer, wide extended fair, We leaves and foliage proudly show. Then autumn comes the truth to know, To search for fruit on fading man, To point behind the frowning foe, For autumn's rear is winter's van. 118

THE DIRGE OF THE SEASON.

Sec Winter comes to rule the varied year, Sullen and sad, with all his rising train, Vapours, and Clouds, and Storms.

THOMSON.

The tuneful birds resign their airy notes, The short'ning day now hastens to a close, Dumb silence seals the warbling choirster's throats, And quiv'ring leaves drop from the sallow boughs In hollow caves now Echo sleeps supine, Save when the thunder of the torrent shakes, High swollen, pursuing its wild devious line, And o'er the craggy cliff impetuous breaks.

No more invaded by the tuneful strains Of happy songsters, does she mild reply, A sullen silence o'er creation reigns, To tempests list'ning, howling thro' the sky. Sometimes the Red-breast's shrill autumnal song, Not yet forgot, at chilly evening rings, In vain his strains wou'd Nature's sweets prolong, The rattling hail raps on his dusky wings.

The shepherd's pipe now mute on yonder hill, No more is heard salute the ear of morn, No more on zephyrs doth soft music swell, The oaten reed or hollow sounding horn. 119

The bleating flocks to pamper wealth and power, Now thinly scatter'd, range the desert heath, Their, happy part'ners in the sportive hour, Poor guiltless victims, glut the jaws of death.

The lowing cattle that on summits stood, When blazing summer rul'd the sultry day, Or vacant, gazing, chew'd the wholesome cud, Or careless lash'd the stinging fly away} In sable-droves now to the city throng, And leave their native hills deserted bare, Their low is heard no more to roll along, Borne on the wings of the soft bending air.

Winter's approach with his own ruffian hand, Lays vegetation's verdant beauties low, And gives to man, in frowns, his dread command, To deal on flocks the sacrificing blow. Then grateful think, ye blest with fortune's smiles, When at your nod the trembling victims bleed, How many a wretch with want incessant toils, While ills on ills in endless train succeed.

While you by fate protected scorn the frown Of haggard Famine, as he stalks around, Enjoying all that wealth to life makes known, The cup of Plenty round with pleasure bound ; Then let your gratitude in deeds expand, In deeds that prove you worth the bliss you share, Spread gen'rous bounty with a lib'ral hand, To soften want, and moderate despair. 120

A CONDITIONAL RECIPE, For driving cold Winter away, addressed to the Cottar.

When chill biting frosts, and cold sleety showers, Are pinching our fingers and toes, Whentheleavesby thetempest aretornfrom thebowers, And the icicle hangs at our nose; When the landscape around is a wilderness wild, Where Nature is sunk to decay, How hard, amid barrenness haply exil'd, To drive the cold winter away !

Yet the cot in the desert innately may charm, Tho' the hurricane beat on its head, If the inmates, to baffle the frown of the storm, Have wove it with willow and weed ; If the chinks in the wall, the rude breaches of time, Are carefully covered with clay, The rustic may smile at the rage of the clime, And drive the cold winter away.

With the simple demands of each want in his power, That Nature has taught him to feel, If he prizes the faggot that beams on the floor, And his bucket of barley and meal ; If at Luxury's shrine he ne'er proffers a wish, Or sighs to be great or be gay; The tempest, unheeded around him may rush, He drives the cold winter away. 121

Tfao' luxury fly to the pomp of the town, When winter dismantles the plain, And slumber supine on his pillow of down, And return with the summer again; All climes and all seasons the cottager tries, He welcomes the blossoms of May, The frowns of December undaunted he eyes, And drives the cold winter away.

ROBIN RED-BREAST; OR, THE WINTER VISITANT. Now winter's rage howls thro' the hedge, And robes the fields in white, The stream complains, in icy chains, Sad captive of the night. All Nature groans, and sore bemoans, This all-distressing scene, And warblers now, from every bough, Dejectedly complain.

Bereft of food they leave the wood, And supplicate relief, From the lone ear, that trembles here, * From the inverted sheaf. In cheerless flocks they glean the stacks, And pick their scanty fare, Then rush amain, disturb'd again, Into the fleecy air.

* In the Barn Yard. L 122

Among the rest with target breast, Made bolder by his wants, The Robin conies, and for his crumbs, The cheerless sonnet chaunts. The lowly floor he ventures o'er, And picks a scanty meal ; Then hops aloft, with plumage tuft, Atop the water pail.

From gazing there, he does prepare, To aim another flight, To where the bread, in cupboard spread, Attracts his longing sight. With nimble bill, and frisking tail, He hops from this to that, And whirring springs on ready wings, To mock the watchful cat.

But now afraid lest he be made, For his temerity, To feel the smarts of his deserts, And bold dexterity, He rushes out with chirping note, Till once he thinks his wrongs Are all forgot, and his foul plot, Of stooling on the tongs.

Poor harmless bird, what heart so hard, As would thy fault chastise, Tho' scant thy food, since its allow'd, By Heav'n's direction wise. 123

The nipping frost, the driving blast, Do sanction well thy need, Then boldly come, and on each crumb With freedom do thou feed.

Of what I have, to thee I give, With willing heart and free, For well as thee dependent I, Am on the Deity. For thy distress, my happiness, Augments as I perceive; No more afraid, my threshold tread, Thy wants I will relieve.

Then Robin come, let winter hum, With wild relentless rage, For willing I shall food supply, And freedom's be thy cage.

LINES ON SEEING A WANDERED CHILD. February, 1814. Cold blows the wind, and just as cold Upon thy shiv'ring frame The pity lights, of those who hold, And ask of thee thy name. Thy little cheeks with tears bedew'd, Of pale and purple hue, Attract the gazing multitude, But that is all they do. L2 r 124 To sympathize tho' all pretend, It ali amounts to this, «« 1 cannot stop, do you defend, And Hcav'n will surely bliss." : Thus deputed relief delays To take thee to its care, And substitutes the meed of praise, To such, if such there are.

Thy infant tongue unus'd to speech, Cannot thy woes narrate, Altho' thy anxious features preach A lecture on thy state. But lectures of a craving kind. Few converts ever make, And thou may st perish in the wind, Before thy story take.

Poor little babe, thy fate and mine Are similar I see; I suffer sore in life's decline, And thou in infancy. I wander on a crowded sheet, Unknowing and unknown; The greater multitudes I meet, The more I am alone.

And if by chance a single hand Should its cold palm extend, Short is the momentary stand, And then I lose vayjriend. 125

My tongue like thine cannot complain, I smother all my grief, Or if it cou'd, to plead how vain, Where there is no relief.

My features too my mind may speak, Altho' my tongue be mute, But what avails it ? none will seek, To find my sorrows out. Thy parents soon may find their child, And clasp thee to their breast, But I long since, these friends beheld Consigu'd to endless rest.

THE SILENT SOD, THE SHROUD OF DEATH.

Wrote on contemplating the Grave of a Sister-in-Law, who died 8th September, 1 805, composed some weeks after the Interment.

The silent sod, the shroud of death, A covering dark and cold, Excludes the zephyr's passing breath; A solemn stillness underneath, Pervades the sacred mould. The sallow trees that o'er it bend, Their mingled branches wave, Their leaves autumnal now descend, Their sickly honours now they lend, To deck the lonely grave. Ls 126

The silent sod, the shroud of death, Is faithful to its trust, The friend may hither bend his path, A sigh, a tear, a sob bequeath, But ne'er survey the dust. In balmy slumbers wrapt below, The mould'ring victim lies, The wind may howl, the tempest blow, And hurl in heaps the drifting snow, The dead have azure skies.

The silent sod, the shroud of death, Is patrimony sure, Let fortune rob us in her wrath, Let friends forsake their plighted faith, The sod is in our pow'r. Within its clammy cold embrace, We all our cares forego, Ambition there forgets the chace, And fraud to wrap the human race, No cunning lurks below.

The silent sod, the shroud of death, Forbids us long to grieve; The sword of war red from the sheath, A transient triumph only hath, The sod can all relieve. The public wrong, the private woe, Are 'neath the sod forgot; Sweet innocence can sleep below, Beside her shrewd malignant foe, Nor fear another plot. 127

THE DIAMOND DROPS OF DEAV.

The balmy evening's mantle grey, Enwraps the daisy'd green, And Phcebus' last departing ray, Is on the mountains seen. The varied landscape's cheering blaze, Assumes a darker hue, And every lilie's leaf displays The diamond drops of dew.

The lengthen'd glade by parching noon, And sultry rays oppress'd, Among its nestling tresses brown, Receives the heavenly guest. To every blade the silent shower Does parting life renew, And every shrub and every flower, Boasts diamond drops of dew.

The wide-extended waste and wild, The garden's cultur'd pride, The heath on shaggy mountains pil'd, The flowers the brook beside; The gaudy pink, carnation sweet, The violet's purple blue, With night's return they welcome greet, The diamond drops of dew. 128

How calm distills this mighty rain, Nor wounds the softest flower, But through their every leaf and vein, Does genial nectar pour. Restor'd by it the flowery tribe, No more dejected bow; But raise their heads, and glad imbibe The diamond drops of dew.

But ah! when once the life of man, With sun and shower grows pale, His batter'd frame, his visage wan, Proclaim a woeful tale. No genial shower, no fost'ring ray Can renovate his brow, His parting vigour flies away, Like diamond drops of dew.

THE PHANTOMS OF A FRACTURE.

As here I lie from social life apart, With aching ancle, and a heaving heart; What dire reflections tear my pensive breast, And more than fractures rob my soul of rest ! While round my couch the shades of evening close, And healthful labour sinks in sweet repose; While all is silent as the night of death, And not a whisper moulds its secret breath ; 129

In dread array a grim aerial band, In motley order round my pillow stand, While eager each do for their turn await, To plead my guilt, and all their wrongs repeat. First Time approaches with the frowns of age, My name inscrib'd on his meridian page; With grave severity he opes the scroll, And holds the schedule to my start I'd soul, Where but my name there's nought inscrib'd appears, But a long list of unimproved years. Then Fortune next supplants the hoary sire, His eye balls rolling in indignant fire, His surly features in hot glances burn, While pointing eras that can ne'er return ; His empty bag he holds it in my view, While fury glances from his vengeful brow; Then turning round, impatient of disgrace, The nameless nothing launches in my face. Next Reputation with her crest-fallen air, Her hair dishevell'd, in her eyes a tear, Slow forward moves, — below her arm a book, On which she ponders with a steadfast look, Then ope's the leaf where once my spotless name, Stood fair unsullied in the rolls of fame ; But blotted now with calumny and rage, It undistinguish'd swells the ruin'd page. Now Health steps forward, not so much to blame, As to entreat me not to lose her name ; She points indeed the rose's crimson hue, A little sullied with the violet's blue, 130

The lily's white a sallow cream o'erspreads, And Nature's tints begin to lose their shades; Yet mildest far of the accusing train, She turns and smiles, and warns me to refrain. Ah ! dire Intemperance, 'tis to thee I owe The accusations these intruders throw, 'Tis thee makes Time unfold his vacant scroll, 'Tis thee makes Fortune's furious eyeballs roll, 'Tis thee makes meek-ey'd Reputation weep, And Health his list of fading colours keep. Ill fated demon — at thy giddy shrine How much is offer'd — much alas ! is mine; How oft I've thoughtless, offer'd thee my all, While nightly revels rung it thro' the hall; But sure such samples of thy treacherous joy, As this I suffer *, will my ardour cloy, ' And back restore me to the smiles of those, That round my couch their nightly plaints disclose.

THE SEPULCHRAL SOD. Wrote on a Sunday Morning's Visit to a solitary private Burying Ground, at the end of Autumn, 1 807. This is Sunday— and sure At this dull early hour, If the Robin is prompted to mourn f, From the tree o'er the tomb, The poor clown's catacomb, His dirge I shou'd kindly return.

* The Fracture and Dislocation. \ The Red-Breast being at the time pouring forth his morning ditty. 131

This sad solemn spot, Ah ! too oft is forgot, Amid life's vain tumults and toys, Such thought (to be brief) Like the fall of the leaf, But seldom my musing employs. No marble here weeps, Nor epitaph creeps, In hyperbole over the dust, The wild-dock and brier, From year unto year, Have long had their ashes in trust. The sod's simple swell, Waves its moss in the gale, An inscription fitting the dead; Where Nature bestows Plain truth in plain prose, In a language all nations can read. Around this rude wall, The leaves as they fall, An annual memento display, Where the unletter'd hind, If to read he's inclin'd, Is invited to hear what they say. As fading they lie, They bid him come nigh, And view what his marble must be, A cold drenched sod, By the side of a road, And his epitaph shook from a tree. 132

ODE TO THE SNOW DROP.

Little pledge of spring returning, Lightly clad in summer weed, First to throw aside the mourning, Lately wore for Nature dead. Winter's rear in ruthless railing, Hardly beats thy tender form, Thy silver bell each blast assailing, Shiv'ring shakes amid the storm.

Instead of balmy dews to foster Infant Nature's languid springs, Round thy stem the tempests bluster, On their arctic chilly wings. All alone 'mid wreck and ruin, Thou uprears thy humble head, While around the winds are strewing Snowy flakes to deck thy bed.

Early pledge of pregnant Nature, Bursting from her swelling womb, Ere she smooths each rugged feature, Thou can show and shed thy bloom. Calmly stealing thro' the fetters, Lately clinch'd by winter's hand, Thy silver pendent darkling glitters, O'er the bleak and barren land. 183

Emblem bright of virgin beauty, Gayly dress'd in native pride, Virtue pointing out her duty, Spoiler's hands on either side. Every blast of vengeful malice, Shakes the tempest-beaten flower, Tho' protected in a palace, Virgin beauty's ne'er secure.

A while transcendent does its blossom, Cheer our gloomy low'ring skies, Till poison taints its spotless bosom, Then, it languid, droops and dies. So the flower by ardc breezes Sorely shaken, soon does fade, Its early bloom the tempest seizes, And the transient gem is fled.

ADIEU YE ARCTIC WINDS.

Adieu, ye arctic winds, adieu, Haste to your icy caves, Or with your surly tempests plough, The frozen polar waves. For gentle Spring, is on the wing, To deck our fields in green, And sweetly stud, the op'ning bud, The tender leaves between. M 134

Adieu, ye arctic winds, adieu, Nor seal the songster's throat, The warbling tribes their loves pursue, Within yon woody grott. The mellow thrush, from every bush, Pours forth her tuneful song, The lark on high, salutes the sky, With matin loud and long.

Adieu, ye arctic winds, adieu, On chilly pinions borne, Nor from the pine-tree's topmost bough, Dislodge yon house of thorn. The magpie there, prepares with care, The cradle of her young, In lofty state, it waves elate, In middle ether hung.

Adieu, ye arctic winds, adieu, Nor longer rend the air, The primrose in its saffron hue, Does all its sweets prepare. In humble pride, close by its side, The daisy's stem appears, And like a friend, that wou'd defend, In every hardship shares.

Adieu, ye artic winds, adieu, Fly to your utmost isles, And let the barren mountain's brow, Be deck'd again in smiles. 135

For there the lambs pursue their dams, And court the sunny beam, Or blythe resort, in infant sport. To gaze in yonder stream.

Adieu, ye arctic winds, adieu, That fan us into age, With an eternal Spring in view, No more we fear your rage, The polar blast, for ever past, Will slumber in our rear, And shady bowers, of fragrant flowers, In every walk appear.

NATURE'S REVIVAL; OR, RETURN OF THE SPRING. Raging Winter's termination, Now the swain rejoicing sees, Smiling Spring's soft germination, Bursting from the herbs and trees. Birds they woo their wonted covers, Singling each its future mate, Chirping sweet instinctive lovers, Courting fond the nuptial state.

Lambkins frisk o'er mount and meadow, Fishes sport in lake and stream, The ox, he gazes at his shadow, Prostrate in the solar beam. M* 136

The lark in air, the noisy sparrow, Cheerful chirps in ev'ry hedge, The ploughman eyes the twisting furrow, Yielding to his potent wedge.

Poultry cackle incubation On the dunghill's strawy top, While the cock's shrill proclamation, Cheers his consorts' future hope, f Clam'rous frogs in pools and ditches, Propagate their latent brood, With head erect their caution watches Every foe draws near the flood.

Magpies on the tall trees perching, Noisy, wake the rosy morn, With nicest art the tendril arching, Of the late crop'd spiky thorn. Field and forest, hill and hamlet, Welcome the return of Spring, Waving wood and bubbling streamlet, Fish of fin, and bird of wing.

Nature far and wide extended, Views in prospect future bliss, Mutual joy with joy blended, Forms a group of happiness.

Y 137

THE WILD BEE ON THE WILLOW BUD. Wrote in March, 1806.

Let flow'ry groves and Summer's pride Delightthe gen'ral eye, And beauty scatter'd far and wide, Display her mingl'd dye. While yet the year in surly mood, Scowls thro' the naked tree, The wild bee on the willow bud Hath many charms to me.

This early gem defies the north, With his retreating frown, And when no leaf dares issue forth, The willow shakes it down. While all the insect humming brood, A while to sleep agree, The wild bee on the willow bud, Displays her wing to me.

How sweet to see the bee embrace This early fringed flow'r, Tho' oft attack'd when in the chase, By the chill arctic show'r. The tempest past, the blast withstood, Tho' cold as cold may be, The wild bee on the willow bud, Comes round the bush to me. M3 1S8

Sweet bud and bee, of life and joy Ye prelude the approach, And tell me, Nature by and by Will spread her flow'ry couch. Till fragrant blooms and herbal food,. She dandle on her knee, The wild bee on the willow bud Will sing a song to me.

THE VIOLET; OR. HUMBLE HEDGE FLOWER.

Below the hedge the violet blue, Its fragrant breath dispenses, Where lowly lurking from our view, It modestly advances. The blooming border's gaudy pride, Unemulous it views it, And blows beneath its native shade, Whose pendant drop bedews it.

Tho' round and round in bright array, In shining plumage painted, Each floweret basks in Phoebus' ray, In Phoebus' bosom planted. The humble violet's lowly form, No finish'd border graces, But blushing 'neath its native thorn, Its native thorn embraces. 1S9

Tho' unassuming is its head, Tho' low its stem and tender, Tho' thorny oft its sacred shade, Where few for pleasure wander; Yet if by random near its bower, Your random foot trespasses, Its fragrance in a summer shower, All other scents surpasses.

Such oft's the fate of modest worth, Unknown and unassuming, Where nought can draw its merit forth, While fools are favour'd blooming. Such is their fate, and violet-like, They'll scent you if you find them, Tho' fools at once with colour strike, And leave their scents behind them.

'Tis not the garb of outward shew, That points intrinsic value, Nor will the violet's changeless blue, Yield to the fading yellow. 'Tis worth intrinsic makes the man, Tho' like the violet shaded, • While poppy-like, fools in the sun, Soon drop and die unheeded. 140

THE PRIMROSE DIPT IN DEW.

When young-ey'd Spring laughs o'er the dale, And spreads her carpet green; When morning breathes her silent gale The rising flowers between; While daisies deck the mountain side, Or climb its lofty brow, The hazel shaws embosom'd hide The primrose dipt in dew.

There sweetly glinting to the morn, It ope's its dewy leaves, The random ray of Phoebus' horn, It transiently receives. The lonely tenant of the wild, It meets the wand'rer's view, The sweetest gem by Spring exil'd, The primrose dipt in dew.

What thovno gaudy tints convene, To give its cheek a blush ; What, tho' by man 'tis seldom seen, Its visitant the thrush; To vacant air it breathes its sweets, From leaves of pallid hue; The breath of morn transported greets The primrose dipt in dew. 141

No more ye gardens vainly boast, When wilds can you defy, Your gaudy tints have labour cost, Beneath a florist's eye. But here untutur'd, breathes the flower, In fragrance copes with you, Wild Nature gives its natal hour, The primrose dipt in dew.

THE RURAL RUIN;

OR, COTTAGE DECAYED.

Comparing the past with the present, I sat, One sweet Summer's evening remote, The flow'rs sprung around me, on this side and that, The air it was fann'd by the wing of the bat, And the sound of the rill's rapid trot. The landscape far spread, was the local retreats Which oft in my childhood I knew, A period that age still the happiest dates, When fond recollection points juvenile feats, In the retrospect fully to view. A cottage was near me, a cottage decay 'd, The inmates exil'd and away, The roof with its ruins the threshold o'erspread, Where slept in her cabin the sweet cottage maid, In rubbish the drowsy toad lay. 142

The rude window sash that resisted the wind For many a winter before, In pieces all broken, and sadly disjoin'd, In the arms of an old elbow chair reclin'd, And unhing'd from its bands was the door. The track of the smoke on the gable was seen, Retaining its primitive hue, But ah ! where the faggot-fed chimney had been, Where the broom stood reclining that kept the hearth clean, The bur-dock luxuriantly grew. The beam that supported the structure of clay That rounded the conical vent, Lay fractur'd, and mould'ring in mournful decay, The very wood-hook of the ham was away, That hung in this cot of content. With a tear in my eye I survey'd the sad scene, With a sigh I turn'd round to depart, With a look half-averted, I glanc'd it again, Till I thought I cou'd ever thus gazing remain, And break with deep sorrow my heart. Shou'd a palace arise on the place where it stands, It ne'er cou'd be charming to me, So long as I thought on the sportive commands The cottager gave to our juvenile bands, As we sported at night by his knee. 143

THE ROSE AND THE REPTILE. A MORAL HINT.

When Summer had wove herbright carpet of green, And flowers in the thickets were ev'rywhere seen, A sweet little rose-bud in crimson and white, Did the beauties of colour and fragrance unite; Its foliage expanding did smile on the thorn, And the dews of the night in its bosom were borne; Its tints so delightful gave life to the ray, That enamour'd around it, did wantonly play, The zephyrs caught odours as by it they flew, And dipt their soft wings in its chrystaline dew; All Nature was pleas'd with the sweet little gem, And a bulwark of prickles was plac'd on its stem, To guard from the insults of season or chance, Or the hand that to pluck it, wou'd daring advance.

A while thus it blossom'd, the pride of the grove, The emblem of innocence, beauty and love, Till alas ! unsuspected, conceal'd in the sprays, A reptile malignant that beauty surveys, As the serpent to sully our primitive bliss, Conceal'd in the shrubb'ry of Eden did hiss, And watch'd a sly time for to work our undoing, And bring the bright structure of Virtue to ruin; So slyly the traitor crawls up every shoot, And takes round its stem a circuitous route, Eluding each prickle that stood in its way, Its purpose pursuing from day unto day, 144

Till at last in the bosom of beauty it lies, Surrounded with Nature's most delicate dyes; Slow working, it perforates leaf after leaf, And revels unseen with the joys of a thief; But soon does the poison those beauties destroy, That Nature meant only the bee should enjoy; The crimson turns pale at the touch of the fiend, And the white unto sallow does instantly tend; The fragrance grows loathsome it languidly throws, And noxious the breath that exhales from the rose; Till fading, it falls from the shrub it adorn'd, And the pride of the garden thus blasted, is mourn'd.

So often it happens with feminine charms, When treachery creeps with a gallant in arms, The flower of soft beauty is mark'd as their prey, And who to obtain it so dext'rous as they; The safeguards of caution they slyly elude, And ambush conceals what they have not made good ; Till at last, like the rose by the reptile entwin'd, They leave but the relics of ruin behind.

AN ADDRESS

TO THE RAINBOW, AFTER A SMART SUMMER SHOWER.

Lovely Iris, proudly arching O'er the lately potent storm, On thy top the vapours perching, Yet obscure thy lovely form. 145

See the clouds behind thee hover, Gently drops the falling rain; The prone descending torrent over, Leaves the lately delu^d plain.

Now the sun at even' descending, Heaves thy towering zenith high, Thy transparent shoulders bending, 'Neath the burden of the sky. Gilded by thy glowing basis, See the distant mountains shine; From the vale the rustic gazes, At a structure so divine.

Now thy colours how they brighten, Bending o'er the hollow vale, Where the dreary prospects lighten, As the damps again exhale. Light and shade so sweetly blended, Mock the artist's tissue loom, When the sun with beams extended, Paints thy circle on the gloom.

Say, proud arch — Heaven's architecture, Built in a celestial taste, Whence thy emblematic structure, Or the end by thee express'd? Auspicious, thou denotes that Heav'n Ne'er will deluge earth again, And this resplendent arch is given, The floating waters off to drain. N 146

CONCEITED COMPARISONS.

Soft are the notes of sweet Philomela, That ring thro' the woodlands and groves of the Spring, But softer the voice and the strains of my Stella, When cheerful her bosom invites her to sing. So sweet is her song, the warblers dismay'd, Resign her the empire of woodland and shade, Eclips'd by her ditty, So soft and so pretty, Their mute adulation to Stella is paid.

Blythe are the lambs that sport by the fountains, When Phoebus refulgent is darting his beams, But blyther the nymph as she trips o'er the mountains, Or bathing her limbs in the pure purling streams; So sweet are her smiles, so soft and so gay, The lambkins enraptur'd, forget all their play, Her sports they so sweet are, The flocks they invite her, Beside the pure streamlet for ever to stray.

Red is the rose amid you green bushes, When drinking the dews that impregnate the morn, But richer the crimson when Stella she blushes, " To some favour'd swain a soft bashful return; 147

The rose quickly fading soon loses its bloom, Its leaves they grow sallow, and sick its perfume, But virtue still aiding, Will keep her from fading, Or sharing like roses so early a doom.

White is the lily, when after a shower, With leaves wide expanded it ope's to the day, But purer is Stella, when like that green flower, Her snowy white bosom the eye can survey ; But seldom such pleasure the eye can behold, The light spreading gauzes her beauties enfold, Like stars when they're clouded, Her charms they are shrouded, The hand would remove, but what heart is so bold.

Jet is the raven on the oak when she perches, And beeks her soft plumage that shines in the sun, But jetter the hair that her snowy brow arches, And down on her shoulders does carelessly run; The lustre of ravens when with her compar'd, Sipks in estimation and dies in regard; Her tresses so silky, Her bosom so milky, The hand of a prince they might amply reward.

Warm is the furnace when aided by fuel, It blazes and scorches intent to consume, But warmer my bosom that burns for this jewel, Where my heart like a faggot is waiting its doom; N2 148

Grant me, then, ye pow'rs, to stifle this fire, The hand of the nymph I so love and admire, Or else like a cinder, My heart unto tinder Will soon be converted, and crackling, expire.

AN ADDRESS FROM THE SHADE OF ROBIN WALLACE, THE DERANGED MENDICANT,

TO THAI OF THE RIGHT HON. LORD K PH TONE, The former being supposed to have recovered in futurity, the use of that Reason, of which, during a long life, he had been deprived by a lamentable accident. 1813.

All hail, my Lord! my benefactor too, In happier climes I now can talk with you; No more in rags I wander round your walls, Or to amuse youj dance along your halls; No more I look abash'd, when menial airs Seem'd to forbid me to ascend your stairs, Or with the song you lov'd, in jest to praise, At once your pity and your mirth to raise, To death, my Lord, this happy change I owe, He was my friend, and hope to you no foe.

What tho' below, you've left your hounds and nags, And I, my Lord, insanity and rags; What tho' below, you've left your titles all, I And I the rubbish of my Reason's fall; We meet, we meet in more indulgent climes, Where virtue blossoms, far remov'd from crimes; 149

"Where you are free from the infectious state, That saps the morals of the rich and great; And I from insults that oft led me wrong, >. And arm'd with oaths my phrenzy-guided tongue.

How happy I, when I beheld you walk Thro' bow'rs celestial, and with angels talk, I found a veneration fire my soul, Which higher duty cou'd but half controul ; I sprung to meet you with a grateful zeal, That those who feel it only know to tell ; I sprung to meet you proudly at your side, Your novel steps thro' flowery paths to guide, To point the wonders of this blessed place, And your amazement at the scene to trace.

Here no destinction reigns, my Lord, between The pamper'd prince, and his low vassal mean ; The humble mendicant is here as great As the engrosser of a rich estate; The lame, the blind, are rated here as high As the fleet-footed, with the eagle's eye; Merit alone, with mercy on its side, Make all partakers of one common pride; And I, poor Wallace, sit as near the throne, As my lov'd patron, worthy E — ph — tone.

N 150

THE BLACK-BIRD'S ADIEU.

The Spring had retir'd with her dew-sprinkl'd lilies, TheSummer was gone withhisflowers blooming fair; The sickle of Autumn had sweep'd all the vallies, The tresses of Nature were shorn bleak and bare; When perch'd on a spray, a sweet Black-bird did sing, But not the soft notes that enliven the Spring; The sky deeply low'ring, her dull eye exploring Stern Winter's approach on his cold chilly wing.

The woods all around her, were languid and faded, The pale sickly leaf to the ground it did steal; The green shady boughs the cool grotto that shaded, Its inmost recess to the blast did reveal. The songster all pensive thus warbl'd her lay, Farewell, ye sweet coverts, when Nature was gay, I now must forsake ye, till Spring it awake ye, And tip with her verdure the point of the spray.

But ah ! unto me, the prospect how dreary, What hardships, when absent, I'm doom'dfortobear; No note from my breast I'll chant vacant and cheary, Sore harrass'd with want, and the frowns of the year. To man I now fly, his indulgence to crave, For the sake of the songs that in Summer I gave, To sue for his pity in dolorous ditty, And beg him a supplicant songster to save. 151

To the straw-cover'd cot, all pensive I hie me, Perhaps sweet compassion her seat fixes there; Perhaps as a prey th' unfeeling may eye me, For my life or may freedom their engines prepare. But what can I do ? pale famine behind, . Comes riding elate, on the wings of the wind ; I'll trust their compassfon, when storms loudlydash on, Some bosom soft pity will move to be kind.

Then farewell ye groves, ye woods, and ye bushes, Where cheerful I gave to the zephyrs my song; And farewell thou stream o'er the grey rock that gushes, And bears the brown leaf chilly curling along; And farewell ye haunts where I oft did pursue, My far spreading nestlings, my duty to you; My bosom is beating, dread fate is awaiting, Perhaps I now bid you for ever adieu.

STANZAS ON NOVEMBER. " Nature ! great parent ! whose unceasing hand Rolls round the seasons of the changeful year; How mighty, how majestic, are thy works, With what a pleasing dread they swell the soul." Thomson's winter.

How dark the day, how dull the hours, How wet the low'ring sky, O'er bleak November's leafless bowers The ruthless tempests fly. 152

Dejected month, in woeful plight, Thy sullen features frown, Thy noon-day dark as setting night, With horrors all thy own.

At thy approach the feather'd choir Seal up their cheerless throats, That used to warble thro' the air, And echo thro' the grotts. In thee the harbinger they view Of Winter's dreary reign, The frozen thorn with crisped dew, And desolated plain.

Now death-like silence reigns around, Pale Nature seems to mourn ; Her fading honours strew the ground, In gaudy Summer worn. The human bosom feels thee too, A languor damps its springs, While o'er the sullen mountain's brow, Thou hangs thy sable wings.

Dull melancholy joins thy train, When vapours dim the air, And sometimes too the clouded brain, Sits brooding in despair. Haste, cheerless month, quick, haste away, Bleak Winter haste, begone, Till Spring return with cheering ray, To weave her flowery zone. «■ 153 THE BARN YARD; OR, BOUNTY SECURED, AN ODE. -The harvest treasures, all Now gather'd in, beyond the rage of storms Sure to the swain; the circling fence shut up ; And instant Winter's utmost rage defy'd. THOMSON. When Autumn's locks of yellow hair, A tribute to the peasant's care, Are pluck'd from yonder vale ; When busy teams unyok'd are seen, To linger on the village green, Dumb bidding Winter hail ! How pleasing then to eye around, Encompass'd with a rustic mound, The cones of plenty rise; How pleasing then to see the swain, Count o'er his stacks of golden grain, With transport in his eyes. Secur'd from Winter's coming breath, And Nature's universal death, He bids his hopes survive ; For now, (tho' grief his bosom wrung, When watery clouds impending hung,) He can with Winter strive. Around on every spiky top, That crowns the close embosom'd crop, The Robin chirping sings; While sallow leaves from every sp^ay, Sad prelude of the year's decay, Are rattling on his wings. 154

The straw wove netting thick is laid, With the dull honours of the shade, That strew their foilage round ; The peasant's footsteps rustling through The summer cups of balmy dew, Are startled at the sound. The rustic gate with matted thorn, From the tall hedge-row's branches torn, A prickly bulwark yields, To guard from cattle browsing near, The favours of the fruitful year, The bounty of the fields. Yet not deny'd their humble claim, The peasant builds his store for them, For them pursues his toil ; He deals them out with pious care, What they would else in riot share, In wanton excess spoil. Let country clown, and city beau, On Heaven a grateful thought bestow, As Winter urges on, That thus while Nature feels decay, They plenty scatter'd round survey, In every swelling cone. 155

THE WINTER ROSE. On seeing one make its appearance, the latter end of October, 1801.

Ah ! luckless flower, what drew thee forth, Or op'd thy mother spray, When tempests from the surly north, Usurpt their ruthless sway. Thy silver leaves of snowy white, That shou'd the summer charm, Thus seen, afford us no delight, They strike us with alarm.

Instead of kindred odours sweet, To mix their scents with thine, The rattling rain and chilly sleet, Against thee do combine. No humming insect sips the dew, That glistens on thy head, To every flower they've bid adieu, For every flower is fled.

What brought thee out, poor frindless gem, Surpasses me to know, While tempests shake thy chilly stem, And Winter works thy woe. Was it because kind Nature's hand, Has long propitious been, Thou thought again, thou wouldst expand, And cheer our cheerless scene. 156

Ah ! foolish thought — ere yonder sun, That rides his lowly round, Has twice his course thro' vapours run, Thy honours strew the ground. Such are the vain attempts to please, Where melancholy reigns; The power, the mind disorder'd sees, As empty as the pains. v .:,,,

The smile that wou'd dispel the gloom Of brooding black despair, Like tapers in a mourning room, But shows the shades of care. Untimely mirth, like roses strew'd, To deck the mourner's way, With settl'd ridicule is view'd, And sinks into decay.

VEBJSES Wrote on seeing an old Holly bearing Berries in December.

When summer flowers and autumn fruits Were swept from every spray, And dormant juices at their roots, In frozen fetters lay; When not a leaf was seen to shake In Winter's surly blast, Or round their parent bushes break The tempest as it past, 157

Adown the winding hawthorn glen, I pensive walk'd along, Surveying every dreary den, The Summer haunts of song. When blushing on the summit's side, Beneath its foliage green, An aged Holly's berries red, In crimson groups were seen.

This wonder in the desert waste, Attract'd my roving eye, In Summer's gayest habit drest, And Autumn's richest dye. Surpris'd I hasten'd to the spot, When looking at its rind, Reflection With her pencil wrote, This moral on my mind.

M Like trees in forests men are seen, Some blossom young and fair, But shiv'ring in the tempest keen, They leave their branches bare. Like evergreens some boldly strive, To brave the stormy windj And 'mid rude desolation thrive, Deserted by their kind.

Thus fost'ring suns the tender buds, Of virtue may mature, .*-.', But early cropt they shake the woods, In an autumnal shower. O 158

While Holly-like some minds appear, That bear their berries late, And verdant April blossoms wear, At bleak December's gate."

THE SWEET-SCENTED WILLOW.

The sweet-scented willow that waves in the breeze, By the coppice that skirts the lone wood, Is the nosegay of Nature, and pride of the trees, The balmy retreat of the wild honey bees, For it yields them both shelter and food. Its wide spreading branches in foliage so green, Are seen from the valley remote; Compar'd with its sweetness, the oak it looks mean, Tho' hail'd by the forest as monarch or queen, And e^n the tall pine is forgot. How pleasing to wander secluded from care, By the rill that runs clear by its root, And feel its soft odours impregnate the air, As if all Arabia's sweet spices were there, From its inmost recesses let out. No gay gaudy blossoms inviting the eye, Adorn its smooth branches ('tis true,) Yet the zephyr enamour'd, while passing it by, Delights in its foliage to linger and lie, And pilfer perfume from each bough. 159

Survey it at morn when the orient ray, In each leaf can a mirror descry, While down their soft surfaces trickling stray, The dew drops of evening to welcome the day, That leads its pale light up the sky. Then fragrance around it is widely diffus'd, Its leaves are high varnish'd and bright, Excepting below where the cattle have brows'd, And the rind with their antlers a little misus'd, While rubbing their necks in the night. Its sweet-scented shade is a happy retreat, For the pleasing endearments of love, In its boughs the fond turtle sits wooing its mate, While the swain lies below it soliciting Kate, And striving her bosom to move. To paint all thy beauties the pencil of verse, Confesses inadequate skill, It sooner the tulip's gay tints wou'd rehearse, Or the merit of shrubs, both exotic and scarce, Than the willow that grows by the rill.

THE PINION OF TIME.

The eagle that soars thro' the sky, O'er hills and low valleys between, As a bird of strong pinion we eye, When beating the clouds she is seen. 02 160

For a while tho' she nobly aspire, And wanton in ether sublime, Her wide-spreading plumage will tire, Beat down by the pinion of time.

Tho' grey with the years that are past, A vigour still rests on his wing, He mounts as in youth on the blast, That's destin'd destruction to bring. The tower that had boldly withstood Th' assaults of the cold and the clime, Wide scatters its fragments so rude, When smote with the pinion of time.

The pine that for ages display'd Its verdure umbrageous so gay, Where sporting beneath its cool shade, At noontide the shepherdess lay: No longer its beauties appear, Or wave to the summer their prime, No nymph is found lingering there, When touch'd by the pinion of time.

The oak and the obelisk strong, The pyramid propping the sky, The infant, the old, and the young, In vain from his visits wou'd fly. The saint and the savage so wild, Barbarity stain'd with his crime, Even Nature herself is compell'd To yield to the pinion of time. 161

THE BLIGHTED BLOSSOM.

Allur'd from the spray by the breath of the Spring, A lovely sweet blossom did blow, The dew-drop of morning bespi.inkl'd its wing, And hung on its plumage of snow. The zephyr blew gently, the winds were afraid, Too roughly to visit the flower, The sun-beam enamour'd, sunk down in the shade, To gaze on this pledge of its power.

The sweet little stranger alone did possess, The empire of wood and of grove, For Nature was rob'd in that sable undress, That Winter relentlessly wove. No floweret did peep from the bud or the spray, The smiles of bright Phoebus to share, Afraid that the mildness that usher'd the day, Might frown in an evening severe.

Nor vain their forebodings, the sun-beam that shone, Resplendent o'er hill and o'er dale, Thick mantl'd in gloom all its lustre is gone, And Phoebus rides sallow and pale. The zephyr that whisper'd o'er grove and o'er green, From the north in a hurricane roars, Where Boreas elate on the mountains is seen, In triumph dispensing his stores. OS 162

Forlorn and unfriended the sweet little flower, Is dash'd by the rage of the storm, No shelter to screen from the chill nipping shower, That beats on its shivering form.

All shrunk and contracted its foliage appears, That lately was fragrant and gay, And the air of dejection it languidly wears, The symptom of rueful decay.

Shut up is that bosom that open'd alone, Unknown in the midst of the wild, Where silence and solitude sit on their throne, From mankind and tumult exil'd. In vain are its efforts (its doom is at hand,) To melt with soft pity the skies, Premature as the zephyr that bade it expand, Is the blast by which lowly it lies.

Thus beauty is blighted, ere prudence direct A proper display of its charms, To know, (tho' he flatter) the foe to reject, That longs for a place in its arms. If arrogance prompt an unguarded display, Ere caution is form'd in the flower, To the hand of the spoiler its charms are a prey, And its downfal, alas! — premature.

* 163

AN ODE TO THE LAPWING.

Say, lovely stranger ! say from whence, Thou wing'st thy annual way, Does England keep thee, or in France, In Winter art thou gay ? Thy modish dress as fine appears, As if Parisian skill, Had cut the plumage that thou wears, And taper'd out thy bill.

The indigo's soft velvet hue, Gives colour to thy back, The snow adorns thy bosom too, Of which thy thighs partake. The crest of fashion crowns thy head With elegance and ease, When thou alights the turf to tread, That whistles in the breeze.

Thou comes to cheer our northern meads, Sweet stranger, in the Spring, And pour thy note above our heads, On sounding devious wing. Thou leaves perhaps the winding Thames, Or Severn's shelving side, For Scotia's unfrequented streams, Along their banks to glide. 164

How sweet when evening shuts her eye, To hear thee sounding beat The listning air, some wand'rer nigh, To make his steps retreat. Or when the morning wakes the east, In watchful toil renew Thy circling wheels around thy nest, That's gem'd with balmy dew.

Go on, sweet bird, with faithful mate, (No hand shall do thee wrong,) Pursue thy loves and incubate, And hatch thy tender young. The rushy marsh will shelter yield To thy weak callow brood, The furrow land, the tillage field, Will yield them ample food. M\-jili 7fii fhiriV'iO When back thy flight thou dost pursue, Escorted by thy train, Our marshy meads will sigh adieu, To welcome thee again. Then mark the spot, thou lovely bird, Where thou with watching worn, Saw lapwings young in pity spar'd, And to that spot return. . .T: :;''. '!j:).V'jf) ;.>.ntf;rilK>8 nO 165

AN ODE TO THE OWL.

Say, thou sullen bird of night, Why thick sable shades delight, Why the gloom that wraps the sky, Prompts thy dusky wing to fly? Still athwart the dark profound, Is heard thy plumage clanging sound, Issuing from yon ivy'd tower, At the death-still midnight hour, When creation courts repose, Drunk with Morpheus' opiate dose.

Why in yonder ancient oak, By parting Time's rude chisel broke, Dost thou love to pour thy wail, Loading with thy woes the gale; While above thy hoary head, Rude fantastic boughs are spread, Spread in all the pomp of night, Silent horror and affright; Where no ear attends thy tale, But the gliding spectre pale, On his midnight errand bent, From his marble tomb unpent; Or, the wretch whose thorny couch, Conscience with invenom'd touch,

/ 166

Spreads with a deceitful smile, Amid a labyrinth of toil, Pricking him, if sweet repose His horror-staring eyelids close, To wander forth and make his moan, Until the shades of night are gone?

Why does morning's purple ray, That ushers in the infant day, Banish thee to yonder hold, To shiver amid damp and cold, Where bolted out the cheering sun, Unseen his radiant course doth run, While crumbling vaults that scattered lie, Are all thy lov'd society?

Is it because the day can show But scenes of sad distress and woe; Infuriate man to virtue steel'd, Pursuing slaughter in the field, Or, wading blood-stain'd on to fame, Across a brother's reeking frame, That prost'rate lies, with broken spear, A footstep to the foe's career, Who treads elate the human pile, To catch dame honour's golden smile With all her gay fantastic train, The play-things of a maniac brain?

If thus, lone bird, thou shun the day, To pour on night thy plaintive lay, 16?

For man, weak man, by passion torn, On wild ambition's torrent borne, Thy grief requests the world to join, Her sympathetic plaint with thine, That man with high illumin'd soul, Shou'd draw compassion from an OwL

NATIONAL INTREPIDITY; OR, THE HIGHLAND WATCH IN EGYPT. When lately proud on Egypt's shore, The Gallic hosts the banner bore, In conquest wide unfurl'd, When wild ambition fir'd their views, Ambition that her course pursues To grasp a trembling world. Who check'd their course, who dy'd the spear In blood, to mar their wild career, And deathless laurels snatch; Who, but that hardy vet'ran core, Who oft have vanquished hosts before? The royal Highland Watch.

Who of the grand Invincible, * Left not a tongue the deeds to tell Of that eventful day, When sabre thick with sabre clos'd, While death on every brow repos'd, In surly grim array;

* Buonaparte's Invincible Grenadiers, with whom the 42d were personally engaged. 168

"Who wrench'd the waving banner high, From massacre's infuriate eye, To grace the wing'd dispatch, That home to Britian nimbly flew, To deck her conquest-shaded brow? "Who, but the Highland Watch.

Let Britain's warmest fost'ring love, That worthy vet'ran corps approve, For much to them she owes. The first to take th' ensanguin'd field, The first to strike the hostile shield, The last to seek repose. Their country's glory all their care, For her they boldly danger dare, Nor ever think it much. True filial love is all their pride, No other views intrude beside, To stain the Highland Watch.

Sprung from the regions of the north, These hardy sons of sterling worth, Around their standard rang'd; The sabre for the shepherd hook, The ocean for the babbling brook, Is in their lot exchang'd. Tho' first to scour their native hills, From rapine's num'rous train of ills, They left their humble thatch, Yet now the sons of distant fame, They still retain their ancient name, The gallant Highland Watch. - 169

Let Caledonia's honest boast, Resound along her breezy coast, In joyful loud acclaim, That thus in yonder distant clime, Her ancient character sublime, Her sons hand on to fame. Let her with fond maternal joy, The festive hour elate employ, In virtuous debauch, And steal the tedious hours away, Amid the jocund circle gay, To drink, " The Highland Watch."

COTTAGE CONTENT;

OR, WINTER IN THE WILD.

Without, the bitter biting frost, Is twinkling in the lunar beam, With pointed spears the icy crust, Is creeping o'er the limpid stream. The hawthorn hangs its hoary boughs, The cottage roof is clad in grey, Around its eve the youngster mows The pendent icicle away, And with its broken points does innocently play.

The silent meteor's fiery glare, With sparkling train illumes the sky, A moment seen to disappear, And in the dun horizon die, P 170

The threshold wand'rer notes the ball, As it performs its airy sweep, And with amazement's ardent call, Points where it struck the rocky steep, Or, quench'd its train loud hissing in the briny deep.

Within, domestic comfort smiles, The cheering faggot glads the hearth, The ling'ring hour the tale beguiles, That wakens noisy rural mirth. The sire, in legendary lore Well-skill'd, the ancient deed narrates, Nor carelessly runs events o'er, But closely sticks to days and dates, When he himself perform'd surprising rural feats.

The female curve the spinsters form, And o'er the flaxen distaff" sing, Hoping their thrift some lover warm, May on a lover's errand bring. Nor vain their hopes, with crisped locks, The neighb'ring swain tirls at the door, Annie, alert at wooer's knocks, Ope's, smiling at his tresses hoar, Then points his seat across the ingle-lighted floor.

The youth obeys, the guileless sire, Beside his chimney yields his post, The swain sits down, and o'er the fire, Wipes from his hair the silver frost- 171

His eye runs o'er the circle gay, Unknowing where its range to fix, The conscious objects all betray The soft suffusions of their sex, And in a mingl'd blush their various feelings mix.

The cottage thus tho' in the wild, It stand unshelter'd bleak and bare, Can give to Cupid, rosy child, Of guiltless gallantry his share. Tho' drear amid the drifted snow, Its humble thatch unnotic'd stand, Yet sweet contentment there may glow, To bless the simple rustic band, If cheerful competence walk onward hand in hand.

Yes, rural virtues there may bloom, Unknown to city's hoards of vice, And shed a fragrant rich perfume, Tho' circl'd round .with snow and ice. For what avails it tho' our dome, Within the thronging city rise, If happiness is not at home? We starve amid its rich supplies, For in domestic bliss, superior grandeur lies.

P2

' 172

THE CHIMNEY NOOK OF EASE.

When glory fires the warrior's breast, He roams abroad in quest of fame, To sanguine fields his steps they haste, With trophies gain'd to deck his name. But happier I, below the beech Can catch the Summer's fanning breeze; When Winter frowns, my limbs I stretch Beside the chimney nook of ease.

No wild ambition thwarts the bliss, I in my humble cot enjoy, I share my Anna's fond caress, . ?. j j ' A pleasure that can never cloy. For why ? my Anna's bosom swells With every tender art to please; Her smile each rising care dispells, Beside the chimney nook of ease. ■iW

Our prattling children round us play, And chalk the floor with figures rude, Portray the winding river's way, Or, roughly etch the waving wood. With self-applause they show their chart, And round for approbation gaze; Such scenes as these can soothe the heart, Beside the chimney nook of ease. ' 173

The wintry storm without, may beat, I value not the storm a pin, When blest in this, my calm retreat, With peace and harmony within. The sleety north may pour his hail, The biting frost may angry freeze, In spite of these I tell my tale, Beside the chimney nook of ease.

In scales of Fate, let empires toss, And maniac rulers poise the load; Let conquest all their thought engross, That in destruction's mazes plod. Grant me but this, when cares perplex, When tempests toss and passions tease, I may 'mid these disorder'd wrecks, Enjoy the chimney nook of ease.

THE AFRICAN'S ANTHEM, On the ABOLITION of the SLAVE TRADE, 1807.

Sing, sons of Senegal, Sing, sable brothers all, Sing, brothers, sing. Slav'ry no more her chain Wafts o'er the breezy main, Pleasure now tramples pain — Pain cannot sting. P3 174

This is a jubilee, Nature meant we should see, Sing, brothers, sing. Dance round the fetter broke, By pity's weeping stroke^- Slav'ry — chain'd to a rock, Gnaws his own ring.

Thanks to humanity, British urbanity, Sing, brothers, sing. ! )HU Thank noble Wilberforce, Touching all with remorse, He made soft pity's course Flow round his king.

Their mild philanthropy Who set this fair copy, Sing, brothers, sing. Others fir'd with the view, Will own us brothers too, Proud to do as they do, Soothe us or swing.

Then shall our sooty race Humaniz'd from disgrace, Sing, brothers, sing ; Leap into life like men, No matter where or when, Ne'er like the brutes again, Led in a string. 175

Sing, sons of Senegal, Sing, sable brothers all, Sing, brothers, sing ; Now is the day and h our, Tyranny loses power, Liberty's at the door, Bring her in, bring.

THE TWIN SISTERS;

Ok THE FAIR FUGITIVE RETURNED FROM EXILE.

"When Nature at first did people the earth With mankind's discordant promiscuous birth, To make the fools happy, in ages of yore, Two Twins (seraph sisters) our old mother bore ; The one she call'd Plenty, a sweet little slut, Her lips were like rubies, her hair like a nut ; To her she gave charge of her corn and her wine, And all the rich stores of her wide magazine, To bestow on man (grateful) her choicest fruit, And the promise of blessings unnumber'd to boot.

The other, call'd Peace, was a calm little dame, From the womb of her mother tranquilly she came, Around her young temples the olive was twin'd, Her aspect was noble, was gen'rous and kind ; The repose of creation was hers to protect, And the proffers of tumult to scorn and reject, 176

To soothe with her ditty the jarrings of noise, And drown all discord in the sweets of her voice ; And leagu'd with her sister, such blessings bestow, As virtue alone has a title to know.

Awhile these young damsels bore empire and sway, For none had a wish but their laws to obey, Till Av'rice from Plenty began to purloin The sheaf from the sickle, the grape from the vine, And to hoard for his int'rest, what Nature's decree Had sworn by her daughter to all should be free ; Then the sweet little seraph perplex'd with their guile, Hid her face that before was adorn'd with a smile, And to rogues and regraters surrender^ her horn, Then fled into exile to weep and to mourn.

The fate of mild Peace, alas ! was no better, When war's iron target began for to clatter, The maniac disciple quick pluck'd from her brow The garland of olive besprinkl'd with dew, In the tempest of tumult he heav'd it on high, And kick'd it as rockets are kick'd to the sky ; Thro' her haunts of repose his thunder is led, And the poor nymph is hunted from shade unto shade, Till she finds the retreat where her sister complains, Where in sorrow they mingle their dolorous strains.

Such of late's been the lot of these sweet tender misses, Such the cup of their sorrow, and such their distresses, But fate now relenting retires from the plain, And gives us (thrice welcome) our nymphs back again, 177

To bless us once more with their heart-cheering smiles, The strength of large kingdoms and bulwarks of isles, Without them wide empires would sink to decay, And islands be wash'd from the ocean away ; Then since they make Britain once more their retreat, Let Britons ne'er push the sweet pair from their seat.

MEZEREON MILDNESS;

OR, DECEITFUL DELIGHT.

Ere Nature thro' her wide domain, Has wak'd each herb and flower; Ere Winter quits the furrow'd plain, Grey chequer'd with a shower ; Ere yet their polish'd rinds are clad, With leaves of sweetest green, Mezereons show their blossoms red, Where fragrance breathes between.

Their balmy breath in blust'ring March, With wonder strikes the sense, Such sweets reward our hopeless search, As July can't dispense. With wonder pleas'd, around we gaze, While fragrance we inhale, To see their crimson studded sprays, Impregnating the gale. 178

But ah ! altho' the balmy bloom Is fraught with ev'ry sweet, And with the softest of perfume The leaves be all replete ; The berry red with baneful wine, Slow ripen'd from the flower, Contains thy fate — to make it thine, If thou the nectar pour.

An emblem just of womankind, When sweet in maiden bloom, You'll nought but fragrant sweetness find, Till wedlock is your doom. Then matrimonial poison spreads From beauty's fading leaf, And but a thin disguise divides A devil and a wife.

THE LITTLE LAPIDARY. Wrote on viewing a young Girl gathering curious Pebbles on the shelving Shore of a small Rivulet. Hitheh come, ye little girls, Who yourselves are living pearls, View your sister Sophy's skill, Picking gems beside the rill ; See with what a curious look, She ransacks the silver brook, Humming, " lofeger yet I'll tarry ;" Patient little Lapidary. 179 -. Throw aside your dolls and dress, These in common but express What a thousand else beside, Can with you in taste decide; "While this little judge of stone, Stands unrivall'd and alone, Like the di'mond in the quarry ; Lovely little Lapidary.

" Here," she says, «« this little thing, " Will be a stone to grace a ring; " This other here, will make a seal, " Ruby-like, tho' rather pale. " Another, next," she cries, M succeeds, " Wou'd decorate a string of beads ; " This one I'll give to brother Harry ;" Gen'rous little Lapidary.

" Perhaps, Mamma, when I return, " May all my flinty favours scorn, " And blame me for my wand'ring here, " And make me shed the silent tear ; " But I'll present her with the best, " And let her choose from all the rest, " And then, mayhap, her frown I'll parry j" Filial little Lapidary.

" Shells of every sort and hue, " At home I have to soothe her too, " Gather'd from the flinty rock," (Looking round as thus she spoke.) 180

She beheld me with a blush, In a moment all was hush, Off she stole with footsteps wary; Timid little Lapidary. - Stop! I cried; thou lovely gem, Honour to thy parent stem ; Hear my ardent warm desire, When thou glows with nuptial fire ? May the youth that gives the ring, A taste like thine to Hymen bring, And prove when he presumes to marry, A Pearl, himself a Lapidary.

THE LOVELY LABURNUM. Wrote, reclined under the shade of one. June 25th, 1807. Search ye the shrubby vale below, Search ye the ferny mountain, Search ye the grove where blossoms blow, Search ye the weedy fountain ; Search ye the garden's gaudy pride, The gentle flow'rs o'erturn 'em, Then say, if in the circuit wide, There's one can match Laburnum ?

Survey this tree in polish'd green, Its lovely leaves they rustle, While pendent in each space between, Hangs out the golden tassel. 181

Not orange groves, where southern moons, Smile nightly o'er their spices, With so much grace, in gay festoons, « Can range their interstices.

Sure it is Nature's birth-day suit, Adorns this lovely wearer, More gay than those that prelude fruit, And regal grandeur nearer. Reclin'd beneath thy golden boughs, That dangle round my temples, Just now I lie, and court the muse, My pillow Nature's simples.

TRrice happy couch, thrice happy shade, I here cou'd rest for ever, And listen to the rill's cascade Its liquid song deliver. But care dissolves the darling charm, (Life still must part with pleasure,) Then farewell tree, I arm in arm With toil, my steps must measure.

And for thy canopy, the roof Of city shop lodge under, And daily there give ample proof, Thro' weary life I wander. How few the days Laburnum trees, Solace us with their beauty, How seldom in the lap of ease, How oft in thorny duty. Q 182

MAY IS THE MOTHER OF FLOWERS.

How sweet are the woodlands and shades, That lately were barren and bare, When Winter congeal'd the cascades, And hung their white sheets in the air! How sweet is the foliage of green, That bursts from the deep shady bowers ! How sweet is the blossom between, When May is the mother of flowers !

• Sweet month that besprinkles the lawn, With flowerets that glitter in dew, That breathe their soft sweets to the dawn, And cheer the pale even' with their hue. Thou comes, the sweet lily and rose, Awak'd by thy trickling showers, On thy lap and thy bosom repose, For May is the mother of flowers.

With the look of a mother she smiles, As her pledges prolific are born, With the care of a mother she toils, To soften the breath of the morn. With the eye of a mother she wakes, When midnight rolls on the dull hours, On their pillow her balmy dew shakes, For May is the mother of flowers. 18S

Then leave the dull noise of the town, Eliza, and visit the mead, Relinquish the feather and down, And lean on the rush and the reed. While May decks the blossom so fair, Make the city's high turrets and towers The objects no more of thy care, For May is the mother of flowers.

With her thou wilt learn to admire, The beauties of rural delight, And the bloom of the blossom acquire, To join to thy own native white. The rose and the lily will vie, For a place in that bosom of yours, Then haste, nor presume a reply, While May is the mother of flowers.

THE BLACK- BIRD'S RETURN.

The Winter was gone, and the storms were all over, The rage of the tempest did rattle no more, Each songster was courting the haunt of her lover, Beside the clear streamlet's meandering shore. When back to the groves a sweet Black-bird did hie, The groves and the bushes she lately did fly, When Winter pursuing, presented pale ruin, Portray'd on the visage that low'rd o'er the sky. Q2 184

The woods now assum'd their gay smiling beauty, The soft tender blossom did lurk in the spray, The leaves all around it in humbler duty, Did guard its too hasty approach on the day. The songster, all cheerful, did warble her song, " Thrice welcome, ye shades, I've deserted so long, While streamlets meander, no more shall I wander, But dwell your soft coverts and shadows among.

'« How gratefully pleasing the prospect around me, When all my distresses and hardships are o'er, That lately with grief and dismay did confound me, As from your lov'd haunts my affections I tore. To man I did hasten, my suit I preferr'd, That tyrant so dreaded that suit did regard ; My sad apprehension, he sooth'd with a pension, For the wants of a songster in pity prepar'd.

" The straw-covered cottage around I did hover, Where beauty, soft beauty, had fix'd her retreat, My timid approaches did feelingly move her, My snow-powder'd wing, and my cold icy feet. My wants she reliev'd with her white lily hand, Her bosom as pure did with pity expand ; The snares of the cruel, she gather'd for fuel, That lay lowly lurking and noos'd in the sand.

',* Then welcome, ye groves, ye woods, and ye bushes, Ye now shall resound with the notes of my lay, And welcome thou streamlet, that murmuring gushes, And washes the face of the old summit grey. 18$

And welcome ye nestlings, ye now shall prepare, To pay to your offspring my duty and care, No eye is now tearful, all Nature is cheerful, And hails the return of the young blooming year."

LINES ON THE RISE AND FALL OF THE LEAF; Or, Human Life exemplified by the Seasons.

When genial Spring first wakes the sleeping flowers, And dozing Nature feels her fost'ring powers, When trees obedient ope their bursting rhind, And swelling buds their annual passage find; When herbs and flowers in sweet disorder rise, And trees and shrubs in verdure harmonize; When youthful Spring displays her smiling train, And sudden verdure decks the spreading plain, Creation smiles ! on trees the plumes appear, And Nature antedates the swelling year.

' When sultry Summer pours his potent ray, And leaves distended in hot breezes play, The plumag'd polar forms a sweet retreat, " From storms a shelter," and defence from heat; In loaded orchards, leaves and fruits are seen, And Nature smiles beneath her mantle green; The ripening Summer swells the harvest sheaf, And spreads the fibres of the full blown leaf; Expanded wide, it heaves its honours high, And the soft breezes in its bosom die. Q3 " 186

Next Autumn comes, and from the fertile plain, Demands the bounty of the swelling grain; The bending orchard does its fruit resign, And purple grapes drop from the loaded vine; The tarnished leaves a saffron hue display, The certain prelude of a swift decay; The chilly evening binds the falling dew, And points at Winter rising in our view; Then when the sun awakes the morning breeze, Thick flies the foliage of the leafless trees, With rustling sound descends the saffron shower Of vanquish'd honours, that shall rise no more.

As leaves on trees the life of Man appears, In Spring it blossoms, and in Autumn sears; In early life, when the infantile mind First ope's a passage through the visual rhind, When young ideas first their leaves expand, What cheering prospects paint the fairy land! ■. In sweet' disorder his young dawnings shoot, And every blossom seems replete with fruit, Each object pleases, every prospect cheers, And smiling Spring eternal sunshine wears.

When Summer comes, his leaves expanded wide, Wave their green honours thick from side to side; The sudden shower his foliag'd boughs repell, Nor Phoebus' beams can find a place to dwell; His waving fruit hangs pendant 'mong the leaves, Nor sudden shower, nor scorching heat receives; And 'neath the foliage of their covert green, The swelling peach and purple grape are seen; 187

With juice nectarious every bough's replete, And groans beneath the pond'rous load of weight.

But Autumn* comes with aspect more severe, And sharper particles of chiller air; From yielding boughs his fav'rite fruits descend, And rigid harvest does her sickle bend; Where Summer's sun could not his beams dispose, The sharpen 'd sickle soon a passage mows; Each yielding tendril drops its darling load, In Spring that budded, and in Summer blow'd; The calls of want, and impotence of age, Ransack his treasures with a maniac rage.

Now chilly Evening hovers o'er his head, His leaves dishevell'd, and their verdure fled; The frowns of Winter at a distance strike, And some sharp particles already bite; In the grey east the sun awakes the morn, To see the honours of his plumage torn From his thick boughs, that did in Summer yield, From storms a covert, and from heat a shield; Nipp'd by the root, his leaves fly thick in air, And leave his boughs in age defenceless bare; His sallow honours strew the distant plain, And prove man's life to be a fleeting scene; Like leaves dispers'd by the autumnal wind, That leave their boughs, nor leave a wreck behind.

* The Autumn of Adversity and Old Age. 188

THE ORPHAN OP AGE.

1817.

The orphan fn infancy pity relieves, The world is alive to his woe; His looks they solicit, his hand it receives, And he lives on the alms they bestow. The loss of his parents, the loss of his friends, The kindness of many assuage; He prattles, unconscious on whom he depends, Not so is the orphan of age.

The orphan of age is the outcast of fate, Him, favour and fortune disown; His woes are so old, they are quite out of date, All their suff'ring novelty gone. He wanders about the wide world at large, Nor a heart in his cause can engage; If aid he solicit, they hand a discharge, To help the poor orphan of age.

The scorn of the worthless he patiently bears, Nor dares a stern look in return; His faults and his failings are rung in his ears, Till deep in his bosom they burn. By those he's revil'd his philanthropy sav'd, Yet still he must smother his rage, And silently suffer, of comfort bereav'd, Alas! the poor orphan of age. 189

If press'd with privation, like thousands around, By traffic and trade in decay, No excuse on a tongue for the orphan is found, " He may better himself," they will say. 'Tis strange, that misfortune in him is a crime, That in others hath sympathy's pledge; Yet such is blind prejudice, such is the time, And such is the orphan of age.

Such an orphan am I at the moment I write, Such treatment I daily endure, And those who in competence knew me at night, Disown me at morn — I am poor. I wander about without parent or friend, With want a hard warfare I wage; But death will relieve me, ere long, at the end, The friend of the "orphan of age."

AN EXPERIMENTAL REFLECTION. The colours prismatic that varnish'd the scenes Of my youth, like the iris are gone, And nought but opacity gloomy remains, Where the sunbeam so brilliantly shone. Thus life in her morning is flow'ry and fair, At noon the dark clouds they arise, At night from the atmosphere, sable despair Blots out the false flattering dyes. 190

LINES

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF THE BIRTH OF MR. JAMES THOMSON, The Celebrated Poet. September 11th, 1800. With joy, with woe, ye Ednam * swains prepare The dulcet song, and wdave the garland fair; Around your brows let clasping ivy twine, And tread soft measures to the tuneful Nine|; This day was born within your sweet retreats, The tuneful Poet of your blissful seats; This day his heart receiv'd the infant ray, It back return'd in all the blaze of day. One cent'ry now on molten wings has roll'd, Since the glad tidings to the world were told, And the soft air did from that breast respire, Whose after-breathings made the world admire.

Lament him, Spring, when dress'd in buds and flowers, Thy youthful zephyrs fan the sportive hours, When frisking lambs adorn thy flowery meads, And shepherds tend them with their oaten reeds. No more his eye will o'er thy transports gaze, Or paint thy beauties in harmonious lays ; Lays, that at once could all thy sweets imbibe, And gently flowing, all those sweets describe.

Lament him, Summer, when thy sultry breeze, Shakes scorching noontide from the parched trees, When lowing cattle pant within the woods, Or insect-stung, fly to the rills and floods;

* The place of the Poet's nativity. 191

No more his pencil paints thy varied hues, In light and shade luxuriantly profuse; Profusion scatter'd with the nicest skill, To show thy tints, and bid thy figures swell.

Lament him, Autumn, with thy yellow hair, When brandish'd sickles crop thy tresses bare, Or vacant reapers clam'rously survey The stag pursu'd, ascend the summit grey; No more his heart will feel for such distress, Or feeling, strive to make the evil less; The stag, the reaper, or the gleaner train, Alike delight him, or increase his pain.

Lament him, Winter, when thy sullen brow, Scowls from the north with hoary locks of snow, When Nature shivers 'neath thy tyrant reign, And heavy drags her pond'rous icy chain; No more thy horrors from his fertile quill, Freeze in description, and in fancy chill; Thy sweeping blasts no more his muse inspire, To strike thy terrors from his sounding lyre.

Long, long, sweet Bard, shall Nature mourn thyfall, And with this day the pleasing past recall, While Spring sits smiling 'neath her dewy sprays, And Summer scorches in meridian blaze; While Autumn heaves her yellow waving grain, And maniac Winter sweeps the howling plain, So long, sweet Poet, shall the fruitful year, Thy natal day hail with the bursting tear. 192

KELVIN KEEP LOW. An invocation to that River, wrote during a heavy fall of Rain. 13th August, 1809. The rain pours in torrents, the soil is afloat, A rapid stream runs ev'ry rill, Its ancient limits the brook has forgot, A liquid sheet covers the hill. The crops in the vallies dejectedly weep, A deluge seems working their woe, Already the furrows brimful are, and deep, Then Kelvin, I pray thee keep low.

Thy banks crown'd with plenty the vallies adorn, Thro' which thou oft leisurely strays, Thy margin is fringed with fields of rich corn, The husbandman's happiest bays. Then think what a pity a prospect so fine, That Heav'n hath thought fit to bestow, Shou'd fall to the ground by a mischief of thine, Then Kelvin, I pray thee keep low.

How oft have I seen thee in years that are past, The sickle in harvest deceive, And all the fond hopes of the husbandman blast, And drown them in thy muddy wave. Repenting thy crimes, as true penitents shou'd, To-day be thou placid and slow, For ruin attends thee, when swell'd to a flood, Then Kelvin, I pray thee keep low. 193

When Winter returns with his vapours and storms, And Autumn retires from the plain, Receive then, and welcome to thy longing arms, The tribute of rills and of rain. When frosts are dissolving, and mountains begin To shake from their summits the snow, The cold rapid torrent then largely take in, But Kelvin, at present keep low.

At present the peasant in peril beholds His all uninsur'd in the field, His cattle at home, and his flocks in the folds, Expecting what Autumn will yield.. Disappoint not their wishes, inundate them not, (If Providence orders it so,) The wealth of the peasant is painfully got, Then Kelvin, I pray thee keep low.

LINES ON MOON RISING, &c.

When sweet Aurora in the dappled east Shakes off the slumbers of her noonday rest ; When fleecy clouds their silver tresses wave, And through the sky the lunar passage pave; When Phoebus' beams are all immers'd in sleep, Within the bosom of the western deep; Then the pale regent mounts her dapple steed, And tips with silver every mountain's head; The shady forest counts her sleeping trees, And the long vale her dusky limits sees; R 19*

The misty steep portrays its form anew, And takes its profile from the lake below, The face of Nature, with nocturnal down, Displays its features to the rising Moon, Creation's self, tho' deck'd in her undress, Throws off her vail, and does her queen confess.

Now from the ocean, she ascends the sky, And looks at Nature with a steadfast eye. Around her orb in their appointed spheres, To form her retinue, attend the stars, While through the clouds she speeds her silent way, They closely follow with a twinkling ray; Round Heaven's high arch with silent pomp she rides, Revives creation and directs the tides; The swelling deep her right exclusive knows, And as she dictates, either ebbs or flows,

The midnight zenith she at length attains, And o'er creation the sole empress reigns, The prostrate world her silver light bestuds, With rising mountains, and with sleeping floods, With glades extended that in forests die, And threat'ning heights that menace from the sky; On yonder hill she gilds the humble spire, That builds its basis on the sacred choir, Where rustics weekly their devotions pay, And pour with fervour the enraptur'd lay; Where mopping owls their midnight sonnets try, And croak their dirges to the silent sky; And where the owners of the hamlet now, Repose their limbs beneath the shady yew, 195

Her silver light illumes the sacred aile, And makes the precincts of cold death to smile; Her eye the sculpture of each stone surveys, The rude Hie Jacits of unletter'd praise, The grassy turf that no inscription bears, The sullen cypress that no sonnet cheers; The lowly urn that no rude stone betrays, She kindly visits with her nightly rays.

Celestial Orb ! that rules the silent night, And guides the pilgrim in his path aright, Who from the sepulchre withdraws the shade, And views the mansions of the prostrate dead; Who calmly dictates to the swelling deep, And cheers creation when she lies asleep; Teach man, frail man, who oft the midnight watch, Expends in riot and in foul debauch, Teach him with thee to visit yonder choir, And see what riot or excess is there, And view if tumult with her giddy head, E'er breaks the slumbers of the peaceful dead; Teach the assassin too, who, bent on death, Resigns his couch for some sequester'd heath, The destin'd victim of his rage to meet In shady covert, or obscure retreat; There bid his poinard in " a plow-share end," And party rancour soften into friend, Till man with man in friendship harmonize, Like moon and stars that gild propitious skies.

R2 196

A DESCRIPTION OF A VOYAGE FROM CARRON TO LONDON. February 7th, 1791.

In that rude season when across the deep, Bor'alian gusts in wild succession sweep, When shifting winds o'er tortur'd ocean roll, Launch'd from the line diverging to the pole, When raging billows mock the pilot's art, And strike with terror the bold seaman's heart.

Fir'd with a zeal to view the nation's pride, The fam'd Londona, and the Thames's tide, In that dread season, I my friends forsake, To brave the dangers of the briny lake.

In Carron's stream the sluggish vessel lay, Her swelling sides lash'd to the busy quay, Whose ceaseless influx soon the cargo told, And clos'd the hatches of the crowded hold.

The morn arrives whose false auspicious gale, Distends the foldings of the spreading sail, While the mild influx of the swelling tide, Does round the vessel's lazy bottom glide, Then the spread canvas grasps the passing breeze, Then the fix'd prow soon finds the cord's release, Then with slow motion down the Carron's stream, The stately vessel does in triumph swim. 197

Along Forth's tide the breeze propitious still, Does every corner of the canvas fill, Before the wind she spreads her airy wings, Upon her prow the careless sailor sings; The vacant passengers more free than they, Along the coast the varying scene survey; Here can our eyes on either side explore, The inland seaport, or the cultur'd shore; The rising mountains, or the sloping vale, The paddling barge, or the far distant sail.

But ah ! how soon are all these prospects lost, How soon the landscape leaves the distant coast, How soon Forth's stream forsakes its winding train, For the proud title of the German main.

Now the fond gale that fann'd our sails before, Forsakes the shrouds and lingers on the shore, The cheerless sun portrays around his form, The dread presages of a coming storm; While round the porpoise ominously glides, And cleaves the surges with his ebon sides, The rolling billows of themselves awake, Heave their broad bases and their summits shake.

Nor vain the omens of the sun and sea, Or sooty porpoise at his gambol play, The coming night each threat does realize, And wings with tempest the bleak evening skies, While the mild breeze that sung us from the shore, Does from the south in ruthless ruin roar. R3 198

Now all the beauties of the distant coast, Are in the wild tempestuous ocean lost, The raging waves erect their heads on high, The howling tempest thunders through the sky; The rolling bark now on the summit's seen, Of the proud wave, now launches in between, Then climbs again with bold undaunted prow, The next proud billow, and then sinks below.

How vain is now all the bold seaman's skill, The raging tempest counteracts him still, O'er the drench'd deck she throws the briny flood, And howls triumphant in each sighing shroud.

To shift the sails and fit them for the storm, The dauntless sailor clings to the yard's-arm, With the toss'd vessel tumbles to and fro, Now strikes the clouds, now foots the wave below, From shroud to shroud with ready slight he flies, Lash'd by the waves, and tortur'd by the skies.

The hulk below in every timber bends While on her front the breaking wave descentls, The shifting cargo grumbles in her hold, The massy hogshead and the Carron mould.

Sometime below, in a fix'd state she stands, Across her deck the raging floods strike hands Then (as a duck that in a rainy day, Dives in th.e stream and rises to her play,) She lifts her head while from her sloping sides, The broken billow thunders as it glides. 199

Four days and nights with constant dread we toss'd On the bleak precincts of the English coast, Where rocks and sands in thick disorder lie, And narrow channels lead the passage by.

At length by labour and the pitying gods, We find an asylum in Yarmouth roads, A dreadful asylum, where sands and wrecks, Are all the grandeur that the coast bedecks; Here beacons stand, here buoys float, and there The shatter'd remnants of a wreck appear, Whose luckless hull had touch'd the treach'rous sands, And now a monitor to others stands.

The ocean here forsakes her native green, And as a river's gumbly flood is seen, The shifting sands impregnate still the wave, And to the surge their sandy aspect give.

The wind proves fair, we leave so drear a scene, And rush triumphant to the seas again, Our trials past, and all our dangers o'er, We reach in safety the auspicious Nore, Whose splendid light burns with a constant flame, And points the influx of the mighty Thame.

Our vessel now in stately grandeur rides, And views the Thames's far extended sides, Whose spreading limits gradually decrease, And views imperfect, to more plain give place. 200

She onward moves, the shelving banks around Are with the season's early verdure crown'd, Here stately palaces erect their heads, Here flowery gardens, and there, fertile meads, Here trading barks with toil incessant move, And Thames's stream is a long floating grove.

At length Londona greets our longing eyes, 'Midst circling smoke her gilded turrets rise, Where the keen eye first catches in her roam, The fire's memento, or St. Pauls's dome, The rest obscur'd in deepening clouds of smoke, The vain researches of the stranger mock.

Still on we move, till at the wharf at last, The weary vessel's to the ring made fast, And ten days later she secures her birth, Than she in triumph left the breezy Firth.

WOODHEAD HOUSE,

PARISH OF CAMPSIE, Wrote on a visit to it, August 22d, 1817, a fine Autumnal afternoon. Let Scotia boast her pleasing seats, Where wealth and grandeur dwell, Her purling streams, her green retreats, Let other Poets tell. My theme shall be the charms alone That fancy far exceed, And taste romantic doats upon, The scenes around Woodhead. 201

Like some strong fortress, high it stands Upon the flinty rock, And with the passing cloud shakes hands, And vapour's lighter smoke. A woody mantle skirts its base, O'er precipices spread, That pleasing dread and wonder raise, When musing round Woodhead.

This pleasing evening, if a mind At ease was but my lot, How cou'd I ruminate, reclin'd Near this romantic spot. And with the pencil of a bard, The varied landscape lead, And make the pleasure the reward, When pencilling Woodhead.

Ev'n as I am, I can't forbear, In spite of adverse fate, (Since chance has haply brought me here,) To sing around this seat. The prospects that the eye can trace, O'er mountain, vale, and mead, And all the beauties of the place — The beauties of Woodhead.

Sunk in a glen that bounds the vale, The parish church appears, An ancient pile, remote the tale That tells the date it bears. 202

Above, the flocks and herds are seen, On mountain heath to feed, And many, many more, I ween, The prospects from Woodhead.

Among the rest the lofty hills Amid the mist are seen, Like veins of silver, num'rous rills Run down their sides of green. The vale of Campsie east and west, You like a map may read, And in romantic grandeur drest, The mansion of Woodhead.

In groves of trees the hamlet smiles, The village in the vale, The farm, the cottage, urge their toils, And fertilize the dale. The waving crops from side to side, Mature their future seed, And shake their locks in conscious pride, To gratify Woodhead.

Long may the last of all the line, * That long have flourish'd here, Long, long in ease and health recline, And long her honours wear.

* Miss Lennox, the only survivor of the ancient family name, the Lennox's of Woodhead. 203

Long may she bless her native place, And give the needy bread, And long heap honours on the race, That long have own'd Woodhead.

V * ^* % » ■* » V% V

LINES,

ON KINCAID HOUSE,

The Seat of John Kimcaid, Esq. of Kincaid, Parish of Campsie, and County of Stirling. If Dukes and Earls by pond'rous heaps of stone, Are from plain Esquires known, and known alone, If but with rank the vaulted roof should rise, And sounding lobbies echoing loud surprise, Till listening turrets catch the wand'ring sound, And the wide stair-case lift it from the ground ; Who would a stranger, visiting this place, Expect to find here, but his garter'd Grace ; Or, second Hopeton, * proud to find his seat, From the plain highway hear the traveler's feet.

But grandeur now is to no rank confin'd, He builds his palace who has ponso'r and mind; The paltry Grocer with his Grace may vie, And a huge mansion make his father's stye ; The wealthy Cit can lineage lost restore, And with new bearings charge his chariot door ;

* The Earl of Hopeton, whose elegant mansion is so universally and deservedly admired by strangers. 204.

From blood ignoble gold can purge his veins, Although some ancestor was hung in chains : — " What was I," is forgot — no question now, But " what lam," (no matter when or how.)

Yet here no broken lineage starts again, To wond'rous pomp, from being wond'rous plain, The legal owner of this princely pile, Can look his scroll of ancestry, and smile ; He sees long back his title-deeds begun, And handed down unbroke from sire to son ; From sire to son, all Esquires of that ilk, Each suck'd his father's with his mother's milk ; ■ In such smooth tide long may this lineage flow, And no new Lord this lordly building know.

THE VILLA OF BROOMHILL,

The Seat of John Lang, Esq. near Kirkintilloch.

Let ancient seats their reverend oaks And rounded turrets boast, Where 'mid the cry of clam'rous rooks The human voice is lost. Their gothic groups of tow'r and tree Are melancholy still, 'Tis sweeter far, I'm sure, to see The villa of Broomhill. 205

There Art and Nature hand in hand, A thousand feats display, Art points to Nature with her wand, And Nature ne'er says nay. Blest Architects whose mutual pow'rs, Man's utmost wish fulfil, Ye'll soon, like Eden, plant with bow'rs, The villa of Broomhill.

Upon a rising mound it rests, Within a hollow vale, And sees in front the taper masts, * Bend with the swelling sail. Behind, the Kelvin steals along, Fed by the mountain rill, On which stands, like a fortress strong, The villa of Broomhill.

Far as the eye from east to west Can dart the visual ray, Or north to Campsie's rocky breast, A thousand prospects play. Below, the garden, wall'd and warm, Bids early clews distill, And Nature lingers there to charm The villa of Broomhill.

Not many seasons back, this spot Where beauty's fix'd her seat, Was barren sand, where children wrote Their names, with day and date.

* Being within a few hundred yards of the banks of the Great Canal. s 206

The waving broom with golden blooms Did furnish them the quill, Now each exotic plant perfumes The villa of Broomhill.

Long may its owner taste the sweets His industry hath bought, And find within its blest retreats That happiness he sought. Till sent to some celestial sphere "Where winters never chill, He only meet in milder air The villa of Broomhill.

THE HEIGHTS OF BHURTPORE.

A Lament for the Death of Ensign John Lang, second Son of John Lang, Esq. of Broomhill, who fell fighting for his Country at the Siege of Bhurtpore in India, Feb. 1805, in the bloom of Youth.

" Fame is the play-thing ot the public voice, " The dead who earn it, careless drop the toy." Humanity comes with the tear in her eye, And asks the soft aid of the Muse, To measure the language of ev'ry deep sigh, That lurks in the bosom recluse. Her finger to India points in dumb grief, She points, but she cannot do more ; She sighs, but her sighs are devoid of relief, As she looks to the heights of Bhurtpore. 207

There the red standard of carnage unfurl'd, In the blood of Europeans dy'd, An awful memento holds up to the world, That oft our fond hopes are bely'd. It waves over thousands mark'd out for the grave, It dips its broad pendant in gore, Where chief mingl'd blood with the blood of his slave, As they fell on the heights of Bhurtpore.

Soft Pity ran over the piles of the slain, Selecting the scars of the young, On the pale lip of youth she wou'd longer remain, Where a parent's last blessing had hung. In her search for such relics amid heaps of fate, She met with the youth we deplore, Her words let the Muse in soft measure relate, As she hung by his hand at Bhurtpore.

" Unfortunate stripling — thy cradle, ah! far Is remov'd from the site of thy grave, Remote the horizon of thy natal star, And early the bed of the brave. In the dawn of fond ardour thou'rt nipt in the bud, And nought can the blossom restore, Its leaves they are scatter'd and mingl'd with blood, To moisten the heights of Bhurtpore.

«« 'Mong strangers thou perish'd,thehandof the strange Consign'd thee to moulder in clay, Thy funeral rites were a formal exchange, To sweep thy remembrance away. S2 208 Not a tear would be shed, not a sigh would be heav'd, JNot a heart with true sympathy sore ; Hut now from esteem or indiff'rence reliev'd, Ihou sleeps on the heights of Bhurtpore.

" Jf mianki"d Aey tdl me' with Slory thou fell, inat thy wounds are the laurels of fame, lhat to grieve for thy loss is at once to rebel, And throw a dark shade o'er thy name Uut Fame and a Father can never join hands HII the feelings of Nature are o'er ; Fame looks to thy name where recorded it stands, A Father, to thee at Bhurtpore."

LINES ADDRESSED T0 JOHN LANG, KS«. OF BROOMHILL, On receiving from him an elegant Edition of Cowper's Poems, December, 1806. If in return for my poor time and pains *, I m by your bounty blest with Cowper's strains- With Cowper's strains in pomp of binding drest, And moral pomp within, the first and best; Then both my pride and gratitude arise, One warms my heart, and one bedews my eyes; I bless the time I measur'd mournful verse, Hung o'er a grave, or ey'd the passing hearse.

, J jla"ng 0Presented him with a Cop, of Verses on the death of an unfortunate Son. 209

These, Sir, are themes congenial to my mind, (My Muse you'll seldom in light liv'ry find,) She shuns the school where levity and wit Display their pencils, and bid folly sit With steadfast look, still more intent to trace The tear-worn features of a mourning face.

Her themes, you'll say, are bought at vast expense, Still human woe must her sad thoughts condense; Before she writes, some tragic stroke must fall, And striking one, destroys the peace of all ; Then what avails her melancholy plight, Can her sad wailings wash the crimson white? No, Sir, they cannot — yet deep strains of grief In solemn concert, may bring some relief, As when a vessel, (deep her storm-beat prow Finds in the waves,) sees others labour too.

STANZAS ADDRE8SED TO MISS J O— — On the loss of her only Brother, who died of a Putrid Fever, January 6th, 1806, aged Eighteen.

" Thou art fallen young tree, with all thy beauties round thee. Thou art fallen on thy plains, and the field is bare. The winds come from the desert ; there is no sound in thy leaves. " OSSIAN's BIKRAIHOV. In vain let Sceptics scoff at grief, And blame the brimful eye, Who never felt a tear's relief, Nor saw a brother die. S S 210

Their false philosophy must yield To Nature's stronger pow'r; O ! sophistry how weak's thy shield, When sorrow's at the door.

Thy looks, Lucinda, speak the heart Transpierc'd with deepest woe, Thou living, feels the pointed dart That laid thy brother low. Nor can we wonder Nature's ties So tender are within, He was the last near sacrifice Belonging to thy kin *.

With thee surviving, still a share He of thy trials bore; Thy comforts too his comforts were, Thy bliss did his restore. In early life, in youthful bloom, Death hurried him away, While Time was waiting in the room, His manhood to portray.

With thee o'er the Atlantic deep, In infancy he came, When orphans, you cou'd hardly weep, Or lisp a parent's name.

* They were born in America, where they lost their Parents, and every o,ther Relative, and came to this Country infantile Orphans to reside with an Uncle, where, till death made separation, they seemed to be comparatively happy. 211

Like plants exotic from afar, You both were planted here, And hope, like morning's brightest star, Did your first verdure cheer.

But ah ! how short the transient bliss, The star of hope retires, Amid the clouds of deep distress, Its dazling disk expires. Just when his blossoms to the view, Began with fruit to swell, Tyrannic fate his sickle drew, And every blossom fell.

So falls the bud in blooming May, When from the frozen north, The cold wind plum'd in hoary grey, Comes unexpected forth. Yet let not, feeling maid, his fate Too much distract thy breast; The herd of mankind soon or late, Like him are laid at rest.

LINES Wrote on the blank Page of the Burial Letter the author received Inviting to attend the Funeral of the Subject of the above. Sad invitation! — to attend the show Of sprightly youth, in gloomy shades laid low; Laid low, when hope on tow'ring prospects rose, And death seem'd distant with his long repose; 212

Repose that age postpones, afraid to keep The stated hour, tho' more than half asleep.

Why then unwearied wast thou sent to rest? Why in the shroud of endless slumber drest? Drest out to slumber ! when thou, scarce awake, Had just begun the path of life to take ! Take warning then, tho' we wou'd pastime wed, Death is a nurse compells to go to bed.

LINES On the first April, 1813, ushered in with frost and snow, and all the inclement rigours of Winter.

If thus April clad in a wintry cloud, With snow and frost the mountain's summit shroud ; If thus that month, the nurse of buds and flow'rs, And all the drapery of the Summer bow'rs, Begin its reign, what will duration bring, But a cold marble to the tomb of Spring.

To thee, sweet month, in former years, our eyes Were turn'd, to ask for kind indulgent skies, To bid the primrose show its saffron hue, And bring us home the vagrant bird cuckoo; To nurse the lambkin in the sunny ray, And teach it round its bleating dam to play, To frisk the summit of the pointed rock, And scent its mother 'mid the woolly flock. 213

But ah! to-day on yonder mountains high *, The drifted snows in ev'ry chasm lie, The blue-fac'd rock can scarcely show its face, Nor can the eye the heathy extent trace; Perhaps ev'n now deep buried in the snow, The dam prolific feels the pregnant throe, Entomb'd in Winter's bosom mute she lies, And for her urgent offspring inly sighs; They meet their fate, instead of vital air, The drift dissolving, shows them stretched there.

Nor do the feather'd tribes, just now begun To speed the work of incubation on, More lucky prove ; perhaps the Robin now, Beneath the shelter of a fern or two, Sits on his new-hatch'd brood afraid to move, Till watchful instinct his delays reprove, And urge him out for cordials, to solace The feeble cravings of his callow race; When he returns to find his darling charge, With the scant gleanings of the world at large, He sees his nest a cup of chilly snow, And all he hop'd for, cold and quiet below.

Then haste, April, let no such scenes disgrace The wonted mildness of thy vernal face, Chase from the mountains ev'ry snowy speck, And in thy livery all thy vassals deck; The waving forest dress in deepest green, And o'er the lawns let daisies white be seen ;

Campsie Hills. v*i '214

Let bleating flocksfcnd singing birds rejoice, And Nature tune her universal voice; So shall thy exit round the rural cot, Make, at thy entrance, all thy frowns forgot.

THE MONTH OF JUNE.

For thee, sweet month, does Nature wake her powers, Prepare her tints, and pencil out the flowers ; For thee, in March, mild vegetation wakes, And from her arms her icy fetters shakes ; Nor longer chain'd unto the barren clime, The dormant strangers hasten to their prime. For thee, in April, softer breezes play, And flowers advance in Nature's sweet array ; The garden's blossom, deck'd in liv'ries green, The wide extended forest's sons are seen. In rosy May appear the flowery bands, Love in their looks, and odours in their hands, Thy birth-day suits by every flow'ret worn, The garden's pride and humble shrub adorn ; On Phoebus' car the hieroglyphics blaze, Of flowery garlands and of scorching rays; While high his steeds thro' sultry ether soar, To gaze with transport on thy natal hour ; And wherefore (ask ye) all this fond parade, When June appears in verdant robes array'd ? Tis duty prompts, as sovereign of the year, This potent month does annually appear. " 215 l ., As hetdispenses all his mighty powers, In fost'ring sunshine or in fruitful showers, So does the harvest to the sickle yield, And Ceres reap the wide extended field ; So does stern Winter wear a sullen frown, Or blythly gay, quaff his October brown ; * As June bears sway, so doth creation smile, Blast the swain's hopes, or recompense his toil.

THE BY-WAY TO WEALTH.

The gold-buds of riches are courted by all, Their colour invites our pursuit, They hang o'er the cope of industry's broad wall, And are tempting as Eden's fair fruit. Mankind, from the peasant to majesty's prince, To reach to their clusters have strove ; An ardour to taste them all ranks still evince, More strong than the transports of love.

The way to attain them, the wall where they grow, In a legible motto informs, " Perseverance," it says, " is the sure way, tho' slow, To clasp my fair fruit in your arms." The by-way to wealth may be shorter indeed, More speedy in gaining its end ; But mark all the hazards that hang over head, And o'er the adventure impend.

• October Beer. 216

With jails and with gibbets this path is rail'd in, Of thousands the end and abode, Who leave the right isay unto riches, so thin, We scarcely find one on the road. And even let the jail, and the gibbet, and all, Be trick'd by the crowd as they pass, And the fruit with impunity pluck'd from the wall, By the hand that's stretch'd out to amass.

Yet view in fruition the wretch how he pines, His wealth is the bane of his bliss ; In luxury's lap see he wastes, he declines, And in solitude sighs out, alas ! In this world's esteem, for his wealth he may rise, (For riches is all they adore,) But still in his bosom a monitor lies, That lessens his value the more. ■ At last on a death-bed behold him recline, Physicians in waiting for health ; How they stare, when he says, " The worst pang that is mine, Is, I've trode in the by-way to wealth."

TRANQUILLITY. As rests the wave upon the deep, When every breeze is hush'd asleep, To slumber out the night ; As towers aloft the cottage smoke, The airy pile by winds unbroke, In rolling volumes white ; 217

As dozing twilight on the hill, When every bleater's voice is still, Looks o'er the peaceful lakes ; As Cynthia in the liquid glass Surveys the beauties of her face, When not a zephyr shakes ; As silence in her covert grey, Doth hush the noisy din of day, When mortals court repose ; As calm the dews of night descend, To make the grassy fibres bend, Or glitter on the rose ; So is the mind sedate and still, Where every passion sleeps tranquil, Unruffl'd with a storm ; No tempests beat, no billows rise, No arctic fury sweeps his skies, His temper to deform. Superior to the ills of life, He enters not the lists with strife, But towers above her toils ; Below him rolls her idle tide, O'er which he greatly stands astride, To check it as it boils. But where's the man, perhaps you'll say, That scorns to passion to give way, That weakness of our frame ; Where'er around we throw our eyes, The rich, the poor, the great, the wise, But vary in the name ? T 218

'Tis he, whatever his descent, With eyes on heavenly objects bent, And nought but heaven in view ; That bears unmov'd the wrongs of time, And soars aloft on wings sublime, Above her pleasures too.

LINES

ADDRESSED TO MR. JOHN GRAT, TEACHER, CAMPSIE, On seeing a small present he bad bestowed on a little Niece of the Author's, for her eminent abilities and regular attendance at School. September, 1813. When merit, Sir, demands your fost'ring care, The means are gentle, nor the mode severe, The little pupil whom true genius fires, These gentle means, and these alone requires; The sullen frown that gaods the dunces on, And pushes Dullness from her leaden throne, Bestow'd on such, unhinges quite their powrs, And makes the failure not their own, but yours.

That you discern the fascinating way, The flow'ry path where genius loves to stray, This little gift, this mead of just applause, Proves to all those who study Nature's laws, Who know the motives that incite the young, Reward the brave or stimulate the strong, Or trace the workings of the human mind, Its latent pow'r and energy to find. 219

To dunces, too, neglect may be of use, And merit own'd, a happy change produce, If emulation in their cloudy breasts Has but one spark that in the ashes rests, A fellow's success may that spark inflame, And kindle ardour yet for future fame, Dispell the mist that hangs on learning's brow, And purchase honour for themselves and you.

»»»>v»»%^v*»* LINES ON BEN CARRON; VULGARLY CALLED " THE MUCKLE BINN." Where Carron first her oozy course begins, From stagnate marshes and from poppling springs, "Where rifled rocks their amber founts distill, And throw them gurgling down the heathy hill, Appears the Ben, whose wide extended base, In devious juttings stretches different ways, While settl'd mists his towering top o'erspreads, In which his heathy, shaggy, locks he shades, And when the sun his sullen brow unshrouds, His spiky summit strikes " the wand'ring clouds."

Here lowing cattle round his margin graze, And fleecy Heaters from his shoulders gaze; Here tending shepherds stretch their limbs supine, And quafF the founts that bubble Nature's wine; Here soaring eagles roost upon his top, And to the valley on their victims drop; Here rocky juttings shew their brows, and there, The shaggy wild grass shakes her wither'd hair. T2 220

Near to the summit of his sable brow, His conic form divides itself in two, These separate pointings still from far are seen, And close explor'd, there lies a lake between; A lake suspended half 'twixt earth and skies, Where but in clouds, no watery fluid lies.

When beaming Summers brighten Nature's scene, And paint creation in her vernal green, His height stupendous often does invite, To pleasing labour and severe delight.

From his high top, the stranger oft explores Old Scotia's mountains, and her misty shores, Her fertile vallies, and her meadows green, Her smoking cities, and her cots between.

Here vallies sink, there shaggy summits rise, Here waving forests dimly harmonize, While lakes and rivers chrystal'd as they flow, Like speckl'd diamonds glisten from below.

In her wide range, the eye surveys elate From Arran's cliffs to Arthur's towering seat, From north to south, from Lomond's brother Ben, Beyond the Tinto shading Clydesdale plain.

Straight to the east, Forth's busy influx glides, Where cheering traffic gluts the swelling tides; As fixed spots from this retreat are seen, The busy barks that plow the liquid green. 221

Soon as the stranger has the whole survey'd, And his reflexions on the prospect made, To show the world that he so bold has been, As from this height to view the distant plain, He (as is common) to record his fame, On the top turf, engraves his daring name; Pleas'd, he retires from this aspiring height, The seat of terror and severe delight, Relates the troubles that the bold endure, Before they reach the grass engraven tower, The views they have, the pleasure and the pain, Until they reach the lowly vales again, "Which oft induces those who ne'er before Such lofty regions did as these explore, To list themselves in pleasure's joyous train, And jointly view the proud aspiring Ben.

THE LARKS; OR, THE LATE VISIT OF WINTER. 31st May, 1809.

Warm was the weather, and May was in blossom, Beauty and harmony dwelt on each spray, Ardent the love was of each feather'd bosom, Little, ah ! dreading May's last fatal day. When all of a sudden, as if dark December Had made his escape from the north's frozen sky, The swain on the hearth laid his billet of timber, And terror repress'd eVn the aid of a sigh, T3 222

Thick thro' the air the snowy flakes quiver'd, Keen bit the frost on the green spreading tree, Sprays from the bushes sore burden'd were sever'd, And white was the carpet that cover'd the lea. When far on the plain, by bush unprotected, A sweet little lark spread her wings o'er her young, For a while thro' the snow she her breathing ejected, So faithful is instinct, so ardent and strong.

But thick and more thick, the cold cov'ring descended, The mole-hill adjoining grew higher and higher, Like a widow she sat with her young, unbefriended, Then sprung up and chirp'd out a note for their sire. He, poor little bird, with his heart full of sorrow, And snow-powder'd plumage was shiv'ring near, And mournfully marking beside a rude furrow, The sad devastation that prey'd on the year.

The note of his spouse from his stupor awakes him, The note of his spouse is complaining and loud, Then back on swift pinion, shewingandwingtakes him, To watch o'er the fate of their cold callow brood. But ah ! the dear spot is now quite past their finding, Prostrate the dock-leaf that droop'd by its side, In mutual despair now the fruitless search ending, In mutual despair near the spot they abide.

When Winter thus caught them, they fear'd not his fury, They often had brav'd all his rigour before, No brood had they then in his bosom to bury, No nestlings unfledg'd in sad grief to deplore. 223

Lovely is Nature, and sweet is creation, When their operations harmoniously flow, But awfully striking, the least deviation, Remarked with terror, and follow'd by woe. -%/».■*.*»'**.

LINES On the Consecration of a sequestered corner for the Burial Place of the Author's Family, by the interment of a Sister-in-Law, 1 1th of September, 1805, the first solitary inhabitant of the rural Sepulchre. This sacred spot, relentless Death, is thine, Thy sable curtains round its margin twine, The rustic fence that pious sorrow rears, The rude memento of her sighs and tears, Do thou with solemn silence guard around, And bid the living venerate the ground.

From common use it now is set apart, From all improvement and the rules of art, No more the plough,shall its rank verdure teaze, No more the knife shall prune the bending trees, No more the spade shall teach the crops to rise, Or the red mould give to the fost'ring skies, Late by the mourner's pensive footsteps trode, It is the dead's inviolate abode.

Its first sad victim left the cares of life, Forgot the mother, and renounc'd the wife, Threw off the love of her infantile charge, And all the ties of human life at large, 224

To pay this spot the tribute of her dust, Unmindful what the sacred tribute cost.

Let those who heir by lineal claim those lands, Where this sad sepulchre devoted stands, From Heaven their charter ask with pious pray'rs, That long the right may of these lands be theirs; That no disaster may that claim defeat, That no misconduct ope' to change the gate, But that their right in one smooth tenour run, From age to age, from future sire to son.

Let never strangers this sad spot assail, Or tear by purchase this remote entail, A right more sacred than the forms of law, With all its quibbles ever yet cou'd draw; But let the dust of each succeeding age, Succeeding owners to the spot engage.

Here long let kindred bones together meet, And kindred ghosts their kindred spirits greet, Within its bounds let friendly shades advance, And talk together o'er Death's broken lance; Solace themselves that mould'ring safe below, Their former partners shall no insult know, But sleep united till the final doom, Of culprit Nature to a trial come. 225

LINES On the first Anniversary of the death of the Author's Father, 21st October, 1809. Revolving seasons have their circuit run, Back to the south retires the weary sun, The weary sun the same position takes, Throws the same shadows over hills and lakes, As on that day when a lov'd father fell, Bade time adieu, and all his friends farewell.

External objects and the face of things, Fresh to my mind that mournful parting brings; Methinks I see him, tho' worn out with age, Fight with the foe, and slowly quit the stage, Till forc'd away from life's last postern gate, He from the world made a sedate retreat.

This very hour *, (a twelvemonth back) he lay, Wrapt in his shroud, cold venerable clay, His friends around him, ey'd the snowy sheet Down from his temples clasp his aged feet, Death's awful drap'ry on his pillow press'd, And prov'd the object it conceal'd at rest.

May ne'er this day (whatever be my fate,) In my remembrance lose its dreary date; If on this day, in years to come, I find My grief unsteady, or to mirth inclin'd, May recollection bring my fancy low, And make it still a festival of woe. * Ten o'Clock, a. m. 21st October, 1809. 226

When I, perchance, my scraps of rhyme may read, When trivial subjects trivial themes succeed, When this small slip of paper meets my eye, And this sad day returning hovers nigh, I'll fold it up, and careful lay it where It may be found, when I for grief prepare.

LINES TO THE MEMORY 01 CAPTAIN ALEXANDER STIRLING, Eldest Son of Sir John Stirling, Bart, of Glorat, wrote aftar the confirmation of the report of his perishing at Sea, by the foundering of the Francis Transport, off Sable Island, December, 1799, on his passage to Nova Scotia.

" What cannot resignation do, " It wonders can perform, " That powerful charm, Thy will be done, " Can lay the loudest storm." dr. young.

The anxious hours of dread suspense now past, The mournful tidings are confirm'd at last, Confirm'd, alas ! to wound the tend'rest part, Of every feeling, every friendly heart. Long, long foreboding, did the rumour run, And hope and fear push'd sep'rate passions on, Sometimes the fancy magnify'd the grief, Sometimes sweet Hope thrust in her fond relief, Till Time, great arbiter, the truth does show, And ope's the flood-gates to a tide of woe. 227

He's gone, the youth — Alexis now is gone, The deep his shroud, the rolling waves his stone! Ah ! heedless now, he hears no parent wail With grief tenacious, o'er the mournful tale; No more his hopes to add one honour more, (Expectant burn) to those his sires have wore; Cool'd his ambition sleeps amid the deep, And o'er him waves their equal measures keep; Glory no more has boasted powers to charm, To wake his ardour, or his bosom warm.

Think, feeling think, what anguish seiz'd his heart, " When gulf on gulf o'ercame the pilot's art," When horror wrung the hardy seamen's breast, And terror seiz'd them, an unwonted guest; How wou'd his soul in phrenzy backward roam, O'er all the ties attending social home, The friendly group wou'd in his fancy crowd, While o'er him shook the tempest-tatter'd shroud, For them he'd sigh in all the depth of woe, When dread descending to the gulf below.

Ah ! Sable Isle *, tho' black thou ne'er had wore, Or gloomy sat upon the western shore, A sable cloud had thy bleak face o'erspread, And horror shook thee in the inmost bed, When thou descry'd the desolated main, The luckless bark in every timber strain;

* An Island on the Coast of Nova Scotia, near which the unfortun ate vessel foundered. 228

When thou descry'd the tempest-beaten crew, For life hard struggle, on the shatter'd prow, And quick descending the rude surge beneath, In all the dread society of death.

Thou fate dealst hardly with the honour'd pair, In woes repeated, poignant and severe; Scarce was the tear, the heart-corroding sigh, Sooth'd in the breast, and banish'd from the eye, For one f before, who for his country fell, In youthful bloom, and bade the world farewell, Than now again, another trial's sent, And every string of tender feeling rent; Support them, Heaven, 'tis thou alone relieves The aching smart of every wound thou gives. Come, Resignation, with thy sovereign balm, Each wound to soften, and each grief to calm, Pluck out the sting from fate's envenom'd dart, And cure the grief lies bleeding at the heart; 'Tis thee alone can this sweet task perform, And lay of passions the tumultuous storm, Till every tear that starts from Nature's eye, For future bliss is register'd on high.

f Mr. James Stirling, brother to the above, who fell for his coun. try, off the Coast of Ireland, October, 1798. 229

LINES

TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. MR. JOHN BELFRAGE, Late Minister of the Burgher Association at Falkirk, who died , 1798, Aged Ye pensive nock, whom pious Belfrage taught, Who from his lips the heavenly accents caught, Ye who have long, by his tuition train'd, The peaceful heights of sanctity attain'd, Deplore his loss — let pious sorrow flow, And silent anguish loudly speak your woe; No more your Pastor, studious to reclaim, Bids virtue stamp, and vice eraze her name; At his approach, no more will guilt afraid, Beg alms of virtue, and implore her aid; Nor more will he the dozing saint awake, And harden'd sinner with conviction shake.

Mute now that tongue, which, rebel to his will, The more restrain'd, the more rebellious still; When solemn truths did swell within his breast, And labour'd hard to have their powers express'd, That stamm'ring organ still its trust abus'd, And still the reins of calm restraint refus'd; By Nature faulty, no exerted power, To mild subjection could these faults restore.

Tho' still his tongue did much his speech impair, His understanding felt no falt'ring there, There his ideas did in order stand, His subjects modell'd by chaste method's hand; U 230

There thoughts profound did eloquently rise, And in his bosom jointly harmonize; As when the sky extends her blue serene, And not a cloud bedims the azure scene, The stars appear, the shining planets roll, And sparkling order decorates the whole; Distinctly seen, their gilded orbs appear, And native harmony adorns each sphere,

When hoary years began to shake his frame, And weighty labour joint assistance claim, His son arose to aid hi9 life's decline, A fluent spokesman and a sound divine; His father's precepts on his mind he bore, And in his breast the deep impressions wore, They jointly labour'd, both their int'rests one, Their sole ambition their great Teacher's plan; Till death the burden off the father threw, And bade the son alone the task pursue, Which may he still, as did his sire before, Till fate unite them on a heavenly shore,

VERSES On hearing the Funeral Bell of the Rev. Mr. William Di?n , Kirkintilloch. Ah ! how thy sad and solemn sound, Murmurs to the zephyrs round, And beckons Dun away, Thy stated pauses strike the ear, The starting eye distills the tear, That moists his mother clay. 231

Again thou toll'st — the mournful throng, Slow moving, bear his pall along, In sympathetic grief, Their downcast looks bespeak their woe, Their tardy steps, reluctant, slow, To all but sorrow deaf. They come, they come, thy tongue be still, Thy pauses let dead silence fill, And on thy quiv'ring lip, Let all thy solemn sounds expire, While to the earth the Reverend Sire, They wailingly commit. Now, now consign'd to mpther dust, A parent faithful to his trust, The worthy Pastor lies, The ratt'ling mould proclaims his doom, The harsh ton'd music of the tomb, Thy son'rous note supplies. How often at thy sounding call. Within the church's sacred wall, Has he sedate appear'd, While from his tongue the accents fell, Of joyous Heaven and frowning Hell, Both threaten'd and endear'd. But now no more thy notes can strike, Thy silence and thy sounds, alike His death clos'd ears they wound, He sleeps with thousands till the sky, To the last trumpet's notes reply, And tremour shake the ground. U2 282

THE AUTUMNAL CROCUS.

When May has spent her flowery pride, And June his roses blown, And July's bright carnations wide, Lie wither'd dropp'd and gone; When August comes the scene to close, And blot the flow'ry train, Th' Autumnal Crocus lonely blows, And wakes to life again.

Hail ! frail protractor of the year, Alas ! thy humble bloom, Inadequate the scene to cheer, But aggravates the gloom. Round thee no verdant leaves arise, To shield thy tender form From Autumn's chill inclement skies, Or ward the pending storm.

But friendless, naked forth thou comes, Amid the wreck of flowers, And spreads thy unprotected blooms, In inauspicious hours. As Nature's last posthumous birth, Thou rears thy head alone, And leans upon thy parent earth, Thy elder sisters gone. 235

So friendless oft the child of want, To adverse fortune born, He shivers like this leafless plant, Unshelter'd and forlorn. He looks around, but not a friend, His friends are gone before, Then views alone life's storms descend, And droops to rise no more.

DEJECTION OF MIND. AN ODE. Peace of mind when once 'tis broke, Num'rous ills succeed the stroke, Haggard mien, dejected air, Looks depict'd with dark despair, Moments sad of dire reflection, Broke with sorrow's interjection, Actions careless of their end, Whither well or woe portend.

To such, the world seems in arms, Nature loses all her charms, What did raise to joy before, Strikes at every mental sore; Jaundic'd colours meet the eye, Azure blackens on the sky, Every object sable wears, Tho' they smile, they smile in tears; Stars may glisten round the pole, Darkness lords it o'er the soul; U3 234

Such his state, the mourner wishes His being sprung not from the species; A species who have broke his heart, By plans of unsuspected art, And made him as a vagrant wander, Ev'ry comfort far asunder.

Night returns, he comfortless His solitary couch does press; To and fro in bed he tosses, In vain his weary eyelids closes; Sleep has long a stranger been, Never in his chamber seen; In her place discordance sits, To prick remembrance up by fits, And staring keep his weary eyes, Till morning in the east arise; Such the ills succeed the stroke, When our peace of mind is broke.

SILENCE. Silence sits in yonder grove, Nature near her dares not move, In her lap she holds the breezes, Ev'ry quiv'ring leaf she seizes, Ev*n the distant murm'ring rill, Stealing by her feet is still.

In her thick umbrageous grot, Not a songster breathes a note, 235

Echo's self is lull'd asleep, In the cavern of the steep, While around the grasshopper, Not a limb presumes to stir, Nor the nightly falling dew, Dares to trickle from a bough. -

All is still as pallid death, Not a zepfiyr moves the heath, List'ning Nature eyes the moon Silver o'er her flowing gown; Light and shade she sweetly decks, Yet a word she never speaks, While the stars that ride the sky, Preserve their taciturnity.

Why thus timid is the maid ? Why of evVy breath afraid? Why must harmony and love, In her presence cease to move? Why is din her worst disaster? Contemplation is her sister !

AN ODE ON OBSTINATE OPINION.

Come, Opinion, stiffly come, Strike conviction deaf and dumb, In dogmatic dullness drest, Demonstration's pow'r resist ; Z36

Let not probability, Convince thee of a how or isohy ; It is cowardly and weak, Thus to yield and thus to sneak ; Strike conviction deaf and dumb, Come, Opinion, stiffly come.

Stubborn as a very mule, Call plain reason arrant fool? Tell him he's a compound cheat Of sophistry and low deceit ; Raise thy voice above his sense, Nor mind his nervous eloquence, Tho' it come from bench or bar, Wage it deadly bloody war ; Call plain reason arrant fool, Stubborn as a very mule.

Why should Self-conceit give way To what the world may do or say, Can the world have any claim, Opinion's empire to defame ? No : — Opinion has a throne, Where she reigns and reigns alone, No privy councillor she needs, Responsible for all her deeds ; To what the world may do or say, Why should Self-conceit give way ? 237

THE MIDGES;

A METAPHOR. Oft on Summer's eve I've seen, . Above the newly shaven green, Screen'd by the leafy hedges, Dancing their short-Iiv'd time away, In hornpipe, frisk, and roundelay, A multitude of midges.

A metaphor of life how true, They do what graver mankind do, Their folly life abridges ; Thus we oft dance it by the hedge, Till youth has danc'd itself to age, Like Summer's evening midges.

THE JOURNAL OF A SLEEPLESS NIGHT.

March, 1808. At ten o'clock I went to bed, A bed both smooth and even, But not a slumber seal'd a lid, The clock she struck eleven.

I turn'd me on my other side, In dozing to dissolve, /y Yet still my eyes were staring wide, The clock she number'd twelve. 288

I now got in a fractious mood, And roll'd like any tun, But all my rolling did no good, The clock proclaim'd it one.

Enrag'd to hear my neighbour snore, As other sleepers do, His very shirt, in spite, I tore, The clock arrives at two.

Distracted now, I curs'd that fate, . That persecuted me, But cursing better'd not my state. » The clock announces three.

I now began to wish for day, (As sleep was past my pow'r,) Yet tardy light was far away, The clock, at hand, cries four.

Was ever being vex'd like me, Of beings now alive ? I cried, in frenzied extasy ; The clock swears it is five.

At last the morning's feeble light Began the gloom to mix ; Thrice welcome, said I, to my sight, Then sprung from bed at six. 239

THE ROBINS RETREAT;

OR

THE SMILES OF THE SEASON.

The little Robin, late so free, That hopp'd about the door, Or boldly ventur'd in to see What crumbs bestrew'd the floor, Now to the bushy wood retreats, Where incubation's joys, With other kindred chirping mates, The vocal grove employs.

When Winter's surly biting blast Did rage in ruthless ire, Oft starting, he the threshold cross'd, And popp'd beside the fire. With frisking nod his wants made known, And cheerful in distress, As if asham'd the crumb to own, Did perch from place to place.

Now independent he retires To propagate his kind, And Winter's crumbs, and kitchen fires, Are banish'd from his mind. But lest ingratitude's foul wrong, Man to his charge shou'd lay, At times his cheerful twitt'ring song, Does favours past repay. 240

Such Fortune's favour, such her feud, Alternate we receive, And oft when sinking in her flood, She lends a shrub to save. When Robin-like, oppress'd with want, We eye each prospect drear. How oft we find sweet Hope supplant, The place of haggard Fear.

THE HUMBLE PETITION

Of an old Family Clock, lately removed to a new Habitation, 1809. Wind me up, my new possessor, Keep me right and tight in cords, * Let not too severe a pressure Lean against my crazy boards ; For I'm old and weather-beaten, Time and me have struggl'd long, Thro' my case the worms have eaten, But my vitals yet are strong.

Clean me now and then, and dust me, Give my wheels a little oil ; Give me this, and thou may trust me, I can yet repay thy toil.

* Being an old-fashioned twenty-four hour Clock that went with cords. ' ■ . ♦ 241

Ere thy father breath'd existence, I a time-piece was mature, In his house, I, at due distance, Loud proclaim'd thy natal hour.

For his sake still watch around me, He did tend me long with care, Up each night at nine he wound me, Ere to bed he did repair. Long I thought my years to finish, In the spot by bim assign'd, Now my fate may all admonish, Hope is fickle as the wind.

Changes float in Fortune's vial, Who their destiny can fix ? Sometimes too, I've on my dial Pointed twelve and struck but six. Now I'm old, let softly nursed, All my latest moments be, Nor from hence again be forced, For 111 end my days with thee. %*>^%**%^^ THE PALACE OF SCOONE,

A PATHETIC LAMENT.

Tune — " Alone by the light of the moon." Ye who thro' the vail of past ages would peep, And tear the dark curtain away, Your couches forsake, while the volatile sleep, And pensive this relic survey. X 242

The silence of night will add strength to the mind, To the eye, the pale glimpse of the moon, To the ear, the soft horrors that swell on the wind, As it howls through the Palace of Scoone. As it howls, &c.

Here grandeur of old, had her regal abode, With the sceptre of power in her hand ; Here the king and the hero majesticly strode, Invested with sovereign command. * Here beauty seraphic, in aid of the lute, Her voice did to melody tune, Till echo's soft whispers no longer were mute, But rung thro' the Palace of Scoone. But rung thro', &c.

Here infancy prattl'd its sweet little plays, In the lap of indulgence carest, Here the mother benignant did wistfully gaze, And strain the sweet babe to her breast. Here the nurse would supply it again with the toy, It struck from her hand with the spoon, Such happiness royalty once did enjoy, In the walls of the Palace of Scoone. In the walls, &c

But, ah ! now how chang'd is the seat of the great, How fallen to neglect and decay, Its badges of royalty, honour, and state, Are borne, ah! for ever away. S43

Tho* the change maybe useful, the mind cannot wane Its long fix'd affections so soon, As deny a soft tear, when it visits again The mouldering Palace of Scoone. The mouldering, &c.

No — fancy portrays 'mid the rubbish of time, The objects antiquity knew, The smile of soft dignity moving sublime, And the sound of the minstrelsy too. Till the scream of the owl, and the flap of her wing, The lute and its harmony drown, Then fancy awakes in deep sorrow to sing, Alas ! for the Palace of Scoone. Alas ! for the, &c.

Ye senators now, who at England's fair court, Old Scotia's int'rests pursue, "Who, to this lone relic of regal resort, Have bid an eternal adieu 5 When leisure returns you to your native land, I ask for its ruins this boon, The tear of the eye, and wave of the hand, And the sigh for the Palace of Scoone. And the sigh, &a

X2 *AA

LINES

Addressed to Archibald Cuthill, Esq. Writer in Glasgow, on the melancholy Death of his only Son, which happened August, 1816.

When the young glow of friendship falls asleep, And o'er its ardour Time's slow opiates creep, As if forgot the dormant flame appears, Wrapt in the ashes of consuming years ; But if some stroke, some rousing call of fate Bring to the mind the fond esteem, the date, Years, like the rust on iron, fly away, And the pure metal makes a new display.

Thus, Sir, your recent trial, sad and sore, Of Time's dark postern ope's the wicket door, Admits the friends in early life you knew, To mix widi those who later know you now, To form a group for consolation met, And wipe the cheek the tear of anguish wet.

I grant 'tis hard, ere Nature have its sway, To soothe aright or wipe a tear away ; Parental feelings are so finely strung, Those who wou'd right, may often do them wrong, And only probe the wound they wish to cure, And make the breast a second thrust endure ; Time must have time to ease the aching smart, Ere consolation reach the wounded part. 245

To lose an only Son, and lose him so— I own, dear Sir, is aggravated woe ; Without a partner fond, your grief to share, And split the load that neither might despair ; Without a younger branch, your thoughts to lead From him you've lost, and him you've lost succeed : These are ingredients in the mingl'd cup, Not many fathers, Sir, are fond to sip.

Another bitter potion in the bowl, I'm sure, was anguish to your feeling soul, That, at a distance, fate had so decreed, * The news should meet you of the horrid deed ; Where time and place did widely intervene, And spread a curtain o'er the final scene, No human pow'r had pow'r to tear away, To shorten space or to prolong the day.

Yet, let not, Sir, despair invade your breast, Make Resignation there a fav'rite guest ; You're not the first have been thus sorely try'd, Nor will be last, if Time roll on his tide ; On that wide ocean many wrecks are seen, And many relics of the bliss that's been s The wave that struck you, may another strike, With equal force and ruin not unlike. A former billow, well I mind the day, (And so will you, dear Sir, I dare to say,)

* Mr. Cuthill being in Loudon at the time. ' X3 246

Struck at the root of hopes like yours elate, By the same means, and the same frown of fate ; * Yet Time and Resignation both were there, To suck the poison with assiduous care ; To whose joint pow'rs, dear Sir, I you commend, With all the ardour of an ancient friend.

LINES

Sacred to the Memory of Mr. Wm. Bemnt, late Schoolmaster in Kirkintilloch. Here, Stranger, stop — and o'er this humble stone Deplore the loss of so much merit gone ; Or, if thy youth, by his instructions taught, Has some memorials of that merit caught, Here ponder long — and let the bursting sigh, Heave the swollen breast, and glisten in thine eye.

Here lies the Teacher, if that name applies To youth's Preceptors, here the Teacher lies ; If genuine worth e'er dignified a school, Or man of letters from the learned pool, Such worth inherent purchas'd him his fame, Nor join'd Preceptor with the Pedant's name — A Pedant's name, a name too oft applied, With too much truth to most who teach beside.

* Mr. John Watt, jun. who died in the same manner, 31st July, 1790. • 247

O'er all his Pupils he impartial sway'd, Nor struck unjustly, nor a praise mislaid, Nor did the clown or poor mechanic find Him flatter wealth, and prove to theirs unkind ; The Peasant's son, though class'd with the young 'Squire, Receiv'd more favour, if in merit higher ; As genius shin'd, or as demerit show'd, He dealt his praises, or his threats bestow'd, Tho' a despotic, an impartial sway Awoke the morning, to conclude the day.

To trace his usefulness, and trace it thro', His numerous Pupils studiously review ; 'Mong them the Merchant does in bus'ness shine, The expert Lawyer, and the sound Divine, The son of Physic, fraught with useful skill,. And ready Scribe, whose letters grace his quill, The smart Accountant, who can numbers use, Or Fancy's children, favour'd by the Muse.

To see the man, (and know him as he was) Remov'd from School and Preceptorial laws, No more the tyrant in his looks did dwell, But every look did tyrant fears dispell ; His easy converse, was with ease express'd, To all complaisant, courted by the best; The soul of parties, when for mirth conven'd, The best companion, and the truest friend.

Then, " Stranger stop — and o'er this humble stone " Deplore the loss of so much merit gone, 248

" Or, if thy youth, by his instructions taught, " Has some memorials of that merit caught, " Here ponder long — and let the bursting sigh " Heave thy swollen breast, and glisten in thine eye.'

CONTEMPLATION.

Come, Heavenly power ! my wand'ring steps attend, "Where'er I tread, pour thou instruction forth, Instruction suited to my future weel. If thro' the ma2y woodland copse I walk, Or near the rill that liquid chrystal weeps, Be thou at hand, and from the silent voice Of Nature, sleeping round, thy lectures read. There on some flowery bank at eve reclin'd, . Creation's map with thy calm finger trace, While at thy side thy humble pupil I, Intent to learn, with low obeisance bend. Bid flowers and fountains, shaggy rocks and rills, Extended heaths, or fertile winding vales, Each with a lesson ready written, meet my eye, My eye that ruminates intent to know.

In thy mute presence, Nature whispers forth The hand that made her, every flower declares From whence its texture, fragrance, sweet, and hue ; The brushy heath sings out its Maker's praise, . Pleas'd with its humble tresses, while the rills That tattle down the steeps, confess their source. 249

The rock with sullen front its founder owns, That deeply seated its foundations laid ; While every tree that waves its honours high, Stoops to confess the truth with humble awe.

Thus, Contemplation, 'neath the thoughtless foot That vagTant roams, instruction gleans That warms the Atheist with conviction's blush, And makes him convert to the laws he scorn'd.

Without thee, what is man ? an idle fool, A vacant gazer at the chequer'd map Of heavenly power, on either side display'd ; He treads on lessons wrote for mankind's good. In every grassy blade, the grass displays Its Maker's power, tho' in a humble voice, With as much demonstration to the breast, Where Contemplation has set up her throne, As does the cedar on the mountain's top.

Without thy aid, the rational descends Below the level of the brutal tribe, That feed or gaze on all they see around ; And such is man, where Contemplation's power Ne'er lifts the mind above the brute's regard. 250

LINES To the Memory of the Right Honourable William Pitt, who died January 23d, 1 806.

Britannia the tear had scarce wip'd from her eye, That swell'd from the loss of a tar *, Who her standard victorious, unfurl'd to the sky, And brought her new trophies from far ; Till, alas! with fresh anguish her bosom is torn, Her breast with keen agony smit, Again she reclines her pale visage to mourn, And bends o'er the relics of Pitt.

Illustrious statesman — his fortitude firm, Ne'er shrunk from the threats of a foe, His mind was collected, when fear and alarm In the face of the timid did show. In the senate, undaunted, the scoffs he disdain'd That rose from the partisan's wit; The cause he espous'd — that cause he maintain'd, Till the petulant yielded to Pitt.

Let party detraction his title to fame, Bring sneakingly in to dispute, When the lamp is extinguish'd whose bright blazing flame, Made the tongue of mean calumny mute.

* Lord Nelson. 251

The tide of opinion may ebb or may flow, On his virtues the million may split, But the suffrage of those best enabl'd to know, Will appear on the tomb-stone of Pitt.

The merits of Chatham mortality spar'd, And left them a gift to his son, That the family talents might long be rever'd, When his race of existence was run. Nor vain the bequest, here resplendent they shone, In a station few talents can fit, From the clown in the cot, to the prince on the throne, The nation's indebted to Pitt.

The zone that the kingdoms in unity binds, His vigilant caution did tie, Tho' murmurs at first seem'd to rise on the winds, They soon on the zephyrs did die. Now Erin, contented, is sooth'd to repose, Ev'n the turbulent tamely submit, And the Shamrock entwin'dwith the Thistle and Rose, Adorns the cold temples of Pitt.

Ah ! Death, why our Pilot thus drag from the helm, While the tempest terrificly lowers, And the billows in motion that threat to o'erwhelm This " snug little Island " of ours. The event dejects us — but not to despair, We feel our misfortune — and yet With our trust fix'd on Him, who our loss can repair, We hope for a Nelson and Pitt. 252

THE CAULD SLEET IS COMING. Wrote in November, 1805. The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, Yon hill fin's the breath o't, A' grey is the heath o't, Its bonny brown bells are a' wither'd awa.

The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, Whar will the sheep rin, That feed on yon steep Bin, I fear on the mountains their bield is but sma\

The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The birds o'er the heather, Fly cheerless thegither, Or cow'ring in thickets, say naething ava.

The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, E'en thievish tod Lowrie, The weather's sae scowrie, Amaist frae his hole darena stretch out a paw.

The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The gloomy north-wast, Puts his mouth to the blast, An' blaws as if bodies asunder to blaw. 253

The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The frost in the rear o't, Shakes out the grey hair o't, An' powders the cottager's cabin o' straw.

The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The sun ance sae cheery, Looks darken'd an' dreary, He's laigh in the south, an' his beams ane or twa.

The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, The cauld sleet is coming, the hail an' the snaw, Auld age is sleet show'ry, When want is its dow'ry, The Winter o' life, is a warning to a'.

THE FARMER'S HARVEST HINT.

If ye would shear when thick autumnal rains Stream o'er the fields, and deluge all the plains, This simple maxim still keep in your eye, Make small the sheaf, and soft the bandage tie. So shall the breeze an easy entrance find, The sunny zephyr and the fanning wind, Then soon the swain may build the fruitful dome, And smile at Winter o'er his Harvest Home. Y 254

WINTER.

AN ODE.

Now from the trees the honours fly, And scatter'd in disorder lie; Rude Boreas rules the sullen clay, And nought but piercing breezes play; Their naked boughs the forests wave, And yield the verdure Summer gave; While round where flow'rets deck'd the studded green, The rage of Winter plants his maniac scene.

Their cheering notes the birds resign, And 'mong the naked boughs repine; Or chirp the dirge of Nature's death, In cheerless whirlings round the heath, Their little breasts with grief oppress'd, Eye Nature in her ruin dress'd, While dreary prospects fill their little eyes, As mournful notes from every throat arise.

From cheerless vales the cattle low, And from the heights the flocks review The annual scene of all their woe, The nipping frost, the drifting snow, That robe in white the brushy heath, And bury caves and groves beneath, Where oft their feet to shun the tempest roam, In search of shelter, but too oft a tomb. 255 ■ The shepherd warm'd with gen'rous care, Ascends the white expansion drear, Explores the covert of yon rock, And wakes from death the dozing flock, He leads their footsteps up the steep, Where drifting snows the summit sweep, And where appears unto their sight reveal'd, The brushy heath that a repast does yield.

Along the winding vale below, The tempest drives the fleecy snow, The forest waves its tresses white, The cottage steals itself from sight, And only from the rising smoke, We trace the cottage 'neath the rock, Where vales extended, mountains now arise, And bleak creation wears a deep disguise.

Thrice happy they, who, free from care, Can laugh at Winter's frowns severe, Whose boards with plenty gladly team, And chimnies blaze a kindly beam, Whose hearts are light, remote from strife, And bless'd with real domestic life, Tho' storms then drive, and frosts severely bite, Their outward horror wakes innate delight.

A fate unlike the wretch care-worn, Who still must brave the wintry morn, Without a friend or cottage nigh, Or shield from the inclement sky, Y2 256

Without the comfort of an ember To banish from his hearth, December, Yet still he must this weary scene plod through, And storm on storm without a calm review.

EPISTLE TO MR. ALEXANDER MORRISON.

BEAR SIR, Ye wha insure our goods an' gear, * Frae fire an' water, tear an' wear, . Our lives an' a', that coward Death, Ne'er unawares may stop our breath, Will ye but hearken for a wee, To a poor bletherin' b — ch like me, An' wait wi' patience an' forbearance, For, Sir, I want frae you assurance.

Some time or lang, if hale an' soun', I mean to visit your braw town; A place whar I ha'e seldom been, : mi,, For months a dozen or thirteen, !>.'(' f I' An' stay a night, gif I can get As muckle gear beside my debt, As clear my way, an' let me out Without a " police office" bout. >:\ ,?'[is fl.'t'JG Now, Sir, that day, gif ye hae leisure A pavement stane or twa to measure, Wi' me your ain auP parish bairn, That like yourseF kens " Crichton's Cairn," f * Mr. Morrison was at the time employed in the Atlas Assurance Office, Glasgow. f A principal eminence of the Campsie Fells.

\ 257

I will in trouth be unco proud o't, An' speak at hame baith lang an' loud o't, An' tell them how ye took the causey, An' oxtert me like ony lassie.

Now, the assurance that I want, I hope ye've will an' pow'r to grant, Whan ance the sin gaes out o' sight, Behint the curtains o' the night, Ye will provide me a bit pillow, An' highlan' whisky a bit gill o', An' gif ye're nightly in the habit, Weel mustart o'er, a Welchman's rabbit.

Now, Sir, gif thus ye grant my suit, As weel I wat, I'm sure ye'll do't, Ye'll fin' me gratefu' for the favour, An' to requite it, my endeavour; For tho' I say't, I dinna like To pit fouk to o'er muckle fyke, Without I ettle an amends, For " gif gaf " maks a' body friends.

The doze I mix'd for Burns' critic, (I wish the rogue had the emetic,) I promis'd you, first time we met, I'll be nae langer in your debt; For i' my poutch I mean to put it, That free o' postage ye may get it, Until which time, dear Sir, adieu, Wi' my best laigh auld-fashion'd bow. Lennoxtown, August 23, 1817.

' 258

AN EPISTLE

To Mr. R— W— — — , on his retiring to a remote Country Residence to pass the Winter. November, 1805.

Dear Sir, when ither fo'ks retire To Cities for protection, Frae Boreas wi' his biting ire, An' freezing petrefaction ; Your taste disdains the common rule, By fashion set before it, For now ye've come to hear the howl O' tempests at the Gl — at.

I winna say, dear Sir, ye're wrang, Or false yonr taste o' pleasure, 'Cause by the standard o' the thrang, Your bliss ye dinna measure. A weak compliance wi' the mode, Shows but a passive spirit, An' treading in a beaten road, Has unco little merit.

Sure, raging Winter has its charms, When safely we can spy it, Nor need we court the City's arms, For armour to defy it. „ . . Contentment in a Country cot, Where want is under hiding, The surly tempest values not, Wi' a' its dinsoriie chiding. 259

Then, Sir, in Gl— at's stately wa's, Your case I dinna pity, Tho' Winter roun' you pile his snaws, An' rains come cauld and sleety. Protected from without, the name O' Winter needna fear you, An' from leithin the nuptial flame, An' every bliss will cheer you.

When Spring returns, ere Cities wake Frae dormant stupefaction, Aroun' you Nature's dawn will break, In mingl'd life an' action. The primrose will invite your path To range the wood and bushes, An' music tune the mellow breath O sweetly perching Thrushes.

The rising hills that swell behind, In proud fantastic stature, Will wi' an aspect soft an' kind, Return the smiles o' Nature. The vapours summon'd from their brow, To distant climes resorting, Will show the lambkins two and two, Round verdant hillocks sporting.

Lang may ye, Sir, enjoy the sweets O' each returning season, An' lang to bless the nuptial sheets, Hae aye the greater reason. 260

Till circling your parental chair A prattling race delight you, An' in the ring a son an' heir His little task recite you.

But, gude forbid, that I intrude, Or weary out your patience, Tho', when I'm in a rhyming mood, 1 claim a rhyming license. Then this epistle to conclude, Believe me, Sir, most fervent, While passing thro' life's interlude, Your friend an' humble servant.

A HYMN TO THE HERRING.

First of fishes, unto thee A grateful hymn I'll sing, For seldom am I doom'd to see A fatten'd ox's wing. A bleater's limb ne'er on my spit Is seen to pipe and fry, But thee, dear fish, I'm proud to meet, And on a brander spy.

On thee, when hunger's calls assail, In solitude I feed, With simple water from the pail, And simple barley bread. 261

When thou arrives, but newly caught, Fresh from the briny wave, And richly nice, and cheaply bought, 0 ! what a feast I have.

Or if preserv'd in native salt Thou grace my humble board, And season'd with the juice of malt, 1 think myself a lord. In all thy various shapes and forms, Thy friendship I invite, Fresh, salt, or red, when most thou charms The Welchman's appetite.

For luxury is but a cheat, And health's high-flavour'd spice, Dame Nature asks but simple meat, But Habit calls for nice. His palate that will reckon thee An insult to its taste, Will still a wretched mortal be With puddings, pyes, and paste.

For dainties when with dainties mix'd Destroy the glands of sense, That peevish grown, demand the next, Regardless of expense. Thus, while the rich their taste provoke With sausages profuse, And oft the sumptuous feast unlock, Unknowing what to use ; 262

May I, still in my humble way, Be blest with health and thee, Then let the epicure display His wish to disagree. Long may thy shoals, by heaving tides Be sent upon our shore, And long may we thy scaly sides With gratitude adore.

THE LIVE LOBSTER,

Wrote on viewing one adhering to the Basket of a Billingsgate Fish Woman.

Sure, Nature had thrown by the tools Wi' which she fashioned fish and fowls, Her squares, her compasses, and rules, An' just by random Made thee o' offal scraps an' mools, Whare'er she fand 'em.

Thy form is neither sphere nor cone, (A prodigy to look upon,) Thy forward feet like piper's drone, In wide projection Expand themsel's, weel arm'd wi' bone, For thy protection. -

* 263

Gude trouth they're like a pair o' nippers, For making shoon, or mending slippers, Or ony kin' o' causey trippers By bodies worn, Or like a pair o' Lothian clippers, For weeding corn. Thou'rt planted roun' wi' straps an' strings, Moving fibres, scales, and rings, Some like feet, an' some like wings, Yet rightly neither, I wonder Nature jumbl'd things Sae odd thegither. But yet thou'rt fav'rite o' the great, When smoking on a dinner plate, The cloy'd paunch that downa eat, Stuff'd to the weason, Anither effort will repeat When thou'rt in season. The L — d forbid that e'er I try thee, It is enough for me to eye thee, If in my gate, I wad gae by thee Wi' perfect sconner, An' let the cook e'en boil or fry thee, To feast His Honour. As lang's I can get milk and meal, Or now an' then a slinky veal, Or Hawkie's humps, or Hawkie's heel, Like some poor webster, I'll never fash mysel' atweel About a lobster. 264

For me, thou might for ever creep Beneath the stony briny deep; Or, in a dull lethargic sleep, Devoid of motion, List to the tempest's awful sweep, . Across the ocean. Poor thing, confin'd in closest prison, Without ae drap to weet thy weason, Thou still survives, while mony a dozen, Baith shell an' scale, Forget to move (for that same reason,) A single tail. Why thus tenacious o' thy life, The sport o' that blaspheming wife, Her muckle gorey gully-knife, Will shortly ask it, Then vain thy close-adhering strife, Unto her basket. Ah ! Luxury, what pains and care Thou tak's about thy bill o' fare, The earth, the ocean, an' the air, Birds, beasts, and fishes, An' spices, brought frae G-d kens where, Maun swell thy dishes. Wad human bodies be content Wi' what the ban' o' Nature sent, The produce o' the bog and bent, Bread, herbs, an' honey, They wad to life pay langer rent, In better money. 265

AN ODE TO THE ITCH, On being afflicted by it, March, 1807.

I've encountered the small-pox without vaccination, The chincough and measles in hasty rotation, Eruptions in Spring, from the heat of the blood, And little regard paid to laxative food, With all the diseases of childhood and youth, From the gripes of an infant to getting a tooth, From hives on the outside, to ulcers within, From the time I was suckl'd, till now I can sin; But all my afflictions collectively gather'd, And none of their virulence wilfully smothered, Are but a flea-bite on the thigh or the breach, Compar'd with thee, h-11 of diseases, the itch.

How I caught thy infection, the L — d only knows, By a shake of the hand or a scent of the nose, By touching a stick that a highlandman handl'd, Or dandling a child that a highlandman dandl'd; By lying in blankets a highlandman lay in, Perhaps a whole night and a part of a day in; The cause I'm unable on oath to determine, But my skin is beset with invisible vermin.

Ev'ry method of cure now prescrib'd I'm pursuing, And what others do in like cases, I'm doing, But all my endeavours are firmly resisted, And still I'm oblig'd yet to finger and fist it; Z

-- 266

To scratch my poor skin till the blood run like water, Down strong-scented channels of brimstone and butter, That laid on like varnish, unable to quell Thy curs'd irritation, do nothing but smell.

If I had a foe that I wish'd to annoy, I ne'er would in warfare a weapon employ, Or long with a pistol or sabre to end him, From these 1 would studiously rather defend him, And keep him with care from an enemy's arm, That wish'd to outstrip me in doing him harm ; Then think in this case what my vengeance would be — Like a friend, that he'd sleep but one evening with me.

»^»»^v^-vw»^%^ THE INCHBELLY-BRIDGE ROAD'S COMPLAINT OF INJURY AND INNOVATION, 1805. Feae Glasgow fair city, to Enbro' auld town, I've lang unmolested run up hill an' down, An' borne on my shou'ders baith sinner an' saint, An' ne'er had against me preferr'd a complaint. I carried them ay to the place they were wanting, Thro' bonny wee townies, an' meadows, an' planting, That made travel light, wi' the shortness o' stages, An' suited a' sexes, descriptions an' ages.

But now, the L — d help me, I'm maist like to greet Wi' perfect vexation, I'm gaun affmyfeet, To see how the gentry (cork-headed trustees, That neither a road, nor a water can please,) 267

Are twisting me this way and that way, sae fast, They'll twist me to naething or less, at the last, An' mak' me a bout-gate to ilka bit place, Whar bodies might happen to see a kent face.

Instead o' the towns that I bore on my back, Wliar travel could rest for refreshment an' crack, An' tell a' the news an' the country disasters, When bathing their feet that were hinging in blisters; I'll naething present now but prospects'o' toil, An' a white dreary stane wi' the name o' the mile, My stages will stan', like deserted auld biggins, An' afar afF I'll see naething mair but their riggins.

But o' a' the vexations I've met wi' this whilock, In louping a water or turning a hillock, The way at auld Carny * they're cutting an' carving, My path is a monument worth the preserving. The day they point ae way, next morning anither, An' then they meet o'er me an' gabble an' swither, Cast out, an' agree, then they lift a few spadefu', Whar nanebut themsel's cou'd perceive it was needfu'.

To see how they hack me, an' haggle an' hew mej Wad pit order hersel' in a passion to view me, Sometimes it is meant' I should tak' a straight line, At ithers upo' the coil'd serpent refine, Rin thro' some bit house if it stood in my way, An' nae mair regard it than if it were clay; An' then when I mak' a few feeble advances, They stop my career in the name o' expences. * Carny a cant phrase for Kirkintilloch. Z2

■s 268

O ! wad they allow me to tak' my auld course, They hardly need ope' the provincial purse, My tolls wad do mair than maintain my repairs, In filling cart tracks an' in mending auld sairs; I hardly a baubee wad seek frae my nei'bours, But live by the fruit o' my honest endeavours; Hoping their views will at last wi' mine tally, I'm their humble servant " The road by Inchbelly.'

*.*v*v».w*^*^

AN ADDRESS

FROM THE BASE OF THE TOWN'S STEEPLE, Now rearing in Kirkintilloch, to its Magistrates, Inhabitants, Neighbours, and Parishioners, April, 1814. Ye who this Borough make your steady home, Or here to traffic almost daily come, Ye who around it dwell in wealth and ease, And eye its buildings thro' your shady trees, Or hear the sounds that noisy boys repeat, When something novel stalks along the street, To you I call to hear my fond request, Then to your wisdom I submit the rest.

Behold my base deep-rooted in the ground, From ev'ry flaw, from ev'ry fissure sound, Proud would your bounty meet my fond desire, Up to the clouds to point the taper spire, To bid the vane upon its summit show The shifting winds, that ev'ry hour do blow; 269

And doubly proud wou'd you my wishes meet, To bid the clock within my womb repeat, To wear the dial on my polish'd breast, In all the pomp of city grandeur drest.

Then would this burgh, no longer held in scorn, "With cities rank, and seem more nobly born, My spiral top wou'd catch the eye afar, And circling hours upon my ducal star; My tolling bell with grave and solemn sound, Wou'd spread the notes of passing time around, And in my tow'r, with high imperial state, Each small domestic timepiece regulate.

Now while the workmen rear the jail behind, To which I am by closest league conjom'd, Permit them not to leave me in the lurch, And be alone~a stair-case or a porch; Ignoble thought — at which I proudly spurn, And rather would back to the earth return, Than be degraded to the lowly sphere, Of standing porter, at a prison stair.

I know full well the pulse of trade beats high, And I am here plac'd in the public eye; Now is the time for those to plead my cause, "Who rule this burgh, and regulate her laws, To set on foot subscriptions for my aid, The sums in option to subscribers made ; With what avidity, I'm proud to think, . . The lib'ral pen would suck the willing ink* ZS 370

Till names on names would swell the copious scroll, More than sufficient to complete my whole.

But if one common roof's allow'd to blend The jail and me, all sanguine hope must end} No eye that sees me now will ever see, A gilded vane turn on the top of me, Or view me spread a dial to the sun, Where round the hours the hands diurnal run, Nor ear that hears me plead for future fame, Shall ever hear me give the hours a name, Or toll for joy when welcome news arrive, To keep our hopes of future good alive.

Then seize the happy moment while you may, Nor trust to-morrow with your work to-day, (Procrastination ruins many a wish, And puts industry to a painful blush,) So shall I rise and ornament your town, And stamp the present age with high renown.

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE TOWN STEEPLE of KIRKINTILLOCH, Lately built — to its Neighbours, Parishioners, Townsmen, and Magistrates, for a Clock and Bell. Nov. 1816. I who before did stretch my stony lungs, To touch your feelings and redress my wrongs, * When sore afraid that I had never been With taper top above the chimnies seen, •Vide the Address of its Base, 1814, 271

Or proudly ey'd the mantling smoke below, My gilded cock, just now about to crow, But left ignobly strangl'd at my birth, A vile abortion 'bove my parent earth, By the jail measur'd, and arrested there, The clumsy support of a turnpike stair.

These lungs once more with speech I now inflate, And with my townsmen, urge my old debate; I grant my wishes you have well obey'd, In what is done, since first my base was laid; My shape, proportion, altitude and all, Are to my mind, yes, quite symetrical, The eye with pleasure views me up and down, The leading feature of your little town.

But then, my patrons, I am useless still, Without the pow'r to stimulate my will, An empty void within my bosom reigns, No vital motion thrills my stony veins; My sable dials without figures stand, The sooty circles show no gilded hand, My lofty belfry echoes to the wind, As if alone to catch the breeze design'd; No pond'rous bell is there suspended hung, To give the lapse of passing time a tongue, Or ring the peal of joy, when joy is new, Or with the evening, bid the day adieu.

Think, patrons, think, whatgrief I'm doom'd to share, And breath my sorrows to the silent air, 272

Here as I stand, and eastward cast my eye, f My bosom heaves with many a heavy sigh; There I behold a little pigmy tow'r, My junior too, point ev'ry circling hour, And name them out with a grave city tone, That a cathedral need not blush to own. ;

Nor is this all, the pert conceited thing, An eye throws west, when it begins to ring, That cuts me to the heart, as if it said, " Speak out my neighbour, is your bell in bed, Or are you fearful that you do it wrong, That thus you lay embargo on its tongue."

Consider, sirs, what must my feelings be, When such impertinence I hear and see; Consider too, the burghs in which we stand, Compare them well, and th%n decide off hand, . If it is right that I should 'bide the scorn Of one so rude, rough from the quarry torn, Whose skin with mine will never once compare, While I stand here, and its mean structure there.

Then haste, my friends, a bell and clock provide, My wrath is kindled, and inflam'd my pride, No longer let me occupy this place, Your borough's beauty, and its fair disgrace; Nor let your passengers who pass this way, Again be heard in irony to say, «« My watch is right, I've set it with your steeple," Or I'll denounce you for a wretched people.

t To Kilsyth Church Tower. 273

AN ACROSTIC On the present State of the Place of the Author's NatiTify. Wrote Autumn, 1812, September 24th. Bleak now to me are all thy fruitful vales, In which, while young, I snuff'd autumnal gales, Rich were thy harvests — rich, because I shar'd Devoted plenty, and a sire's regard ; Soon fled these blessings — soon the dream was o'er, To sire or thee I urge a claim no more ; O ! changing fate, I see my natal spot Now nursing aliens, and its own forgot ; Each rolling year prognosticates decay, None, " thou art brother," now are heard to say ; Of all my lineage, Time will rob the place, Where once they dwelt, I'll meet the stranger's face.

To call my name within my natal walls, (O ! how the thought, the grating thought appals,) Must soon be vain, I see the charter tore, Endure I must, and pass unknown the door.

LINES Wrote on viewing the Trunk of a Tree lacerated by Lightning, 20th July, 1808. Say, hardy plant, that many a storm hath seen Rage thro' thy boughs, and tear thy foliage green, Or bare dismantled, shook the leafless spray To the wild howlings of the Winter's day, 274 ;

What dread assault ? what gust of vengeance new, Hath pierc'd at last thy knotty vitals through ?

But, why demand an answer — here the eye Can glance the cause, nor wait thy mute reply ; The dreadful light'ning bursting from above, The double-heated thunderbolt of Jove, Urg'd from the forge, thy stubborn entrails tore, While heaven re-echoed with the thunder's roar.

Stript of thy bark, thou lacerated stands, Thy harden'd texture split like fillet bands ; Where close compacted ev'ry fibre stood, That bound thee tight and made thee more than wood, The winds can enter, and the trickling rain At ev'ry blast, can easy access gain.

Awful that day, when thou thy ruin met, Heaven's heavy ordnance all were charg'd and set, The flaming match was kindl'd at the sun, And Nature's last bombardment seem'd begun, While her weak citadel in sore dismay Saw here and there its broken walls give way.

But thanks to fate, that awes its vassal man, . Not on malevolence, but mercy's plan, It watch'd creation with a parent's care, And many a bolt spent in the streaming air ; Yet still to show what we might shortly be, An angry flash a victim made of thee. 275

Let those who scoff at the tremendous peal That shakes the mountains, and affrights the vale, Survey thy trunk, and put this simple case, What had they been, had they been in thy place? Then learn to tremble when the lightnings fly, And Heaven plays off its grand artillery.

LINES r. Placed over the Grave of the unfortunate Mr. John Watt, jun. of Kirkintilloch, who died July 31st, 1790, aged 21.

When Fate, propitious, with a transient smile Rewards the brave with laurels for his toil, The bleeding warrior numbers with*the dead, With wreaths of honour twisted round his head, His exit's mark'd — the busted columns rise, And sculptur'd marbles groan, with " Here he lies;" While herald Fame presides o'er all the rest, Laughs at fool Time, and challenges his best.

But, ah ! poor Watt, what sad reverse is here, No busted columns round thy tomb appear, By cruel Fate arrested ere thy prime, An embryo hero in the womb of Time, The grassy turf, the letter'd stone supplies, The daisy's stem, the pompous " Here he lies;" The faint encomiums of thy mourning friends Is all the fame that on thy name attends ; Had martial glory led thee to the field, Had foreign foes asunder cleft thy shield,

-r 276

The streaming blood had gilded o'er thy name, And drop by drop been register'd by Fame. But thus obscurely in thy native land, To breathe thy last by an ignoble hand, To breathe thy last, and in the flower of age, "When sanguine hope did all that's great presage, The mind rebellious, heaves with dark distrust, And hardly thinks Omnipotence was just. Nor was the hero all that thou possess'd, The softer virtues center'd in thy breast ; The social friend, when social hours requirM, When the reverse, then the reverse thou shar'd ; Alike remov'd from meanness and from pride, Thy steady medium turn'd to neither side j When Nature form'd thee, 'twas on her first plan, She stamp'd the hero, nor forgot the man.

So, if the tread of one whose heart has known To feel for those misfortunes not his own, Should here but stray, or cast a trivial eye, Here let him stop, nor heave the trivial sigh ; If stranger, learn — if friend, let fall a tear, The manly, friendly, gen'rous Watt lies here.

AN ODE TO THE ACORN.

Little pledge of future fame, Britain's glory is thy name ; Embryo navies sleep in thee, Navies that shall rule the sea. 277

Rule the sea and range the shore, And remotest climes explore, Whether warfare prompt them on, Or to know what can be known.

Oil hath thy ancestors proud, Mighty monarchs of the wood, Spurn'd the forest where they grew, Higher honour to pursue ; And equipt in shroud and sail, Spread new foliage to the gale, Leaving tame ignoble trees, To their listless native ease.

Expectation tow'ring high, Forward casts a longing eye, Fondly hoping in thy turn, Thou wilt too with ardour burn ; Burn with ardour to maintain Britain's empire o'er the main, Where she long hath kept her sway, Crown'd with honour's verdant bay.

Haste thee from thy little shell, Boldly shoot and boldly swell, Bask in sunshine, bloom in shade, Wide thy antic fibres spread. Search the soil, and search the air, Till thou ample food acquire, Nature gives thee earth and sky, And Time will give solidity. A a 278

Future Nelsons yet unborn, Treading on thy planks may scorn Insults, that unoff'er'd lie, Yet in dark futurity ; And with thunder at commandy And the torch in valour's hand, Hurl destruction on the foe, And lay his proud pretensions low.

Henceforth let no anchorite, Tasting thee the fraud repeat, Nor his water mingl'd cup, Swallow future navies up. Nature meant thee for defence, Hence thy texture strong, and hence The warm respect we see always, To oaks and acorns Britain pays.

THE HAMLET IN THE DALE.

Let Cities boast their lofty towers, Their splendid streets and lanes, Where turrets high proclaim the hours, And rear their gilded vanes. Let rich brocade the fair adorn, Let painting aid the pale ; Give me the look that cheers at morn, The hamlet in the dale. 279

There rosy beauty meets the dawn In Jessy's artless smile, From pomp and pageantry withdrawn, A goddess at her toil. Her looks surpass the morning's eye, Her breath the balmy gale, That sheds its fragrance, passing by The hamlet in the dale.

O ! hamlet sweet, to part with thee, And dwell in dirty gloom, My heart frets at its destiny, And deprecates its doom. To leave the morning crowing cock, The peasant's artless tale, Ah ! sad exchange, for city smoke, The hamlet in the dale.

How happy have I met the morn, How blythe the evening hail'd, When on the wings of pastime borne, Thy swelling heights I scal'd. On Jessy too, with vacant feet My suit wou'd oft prevail, To share with me in prospect sweet, The hamlet in the dale.

There seated on the flowery heath, We would its bounds survey, And list to Colly's bark beneath, At ravens on the spray ; Aa2 280

Or eye the sun in yonder stream, That winds along the vale, Reflecting in his golden beam, The hamlet in the dale.

O Fortune ! thou capricious power That drags me from the cot, Thy rigid mandate I'll deplore, Whatever is my lot. Let city wealth my coffers bless, I'll count thy favours stale, Depriv'd from roving round with Jess, The hamlet in the dale.

THE CUCKOO'S ADIEU. Wrote on hearing his last Note for the Season. July, 1819. Say, lovely emigrant, why wilt thou leave us ? Thy song thro' the Summer why wont thou renew? Our woods still are pleasing, yet thou can bereave us, Of the sweet vernal accents of pleasing Cuckoo.

In April thou comes like a travelling tourist, To cheer our bleak region a short month or two, And sings to the peasant the shepherd and florist, Thy ode on the Spring, the sweet ode of Cuckoo.

No sooner is Nature array'd in her beauty, And fruit starts to form where the blossom once grew, Than thou (as releas'd from thy task and thy duty,) Soon bids us farewell, in a mournful Cuckoo. 281

Farewell from a visitant cheerful and pleasing, Plants a thorn in the bosom, I cannot tell how; Ev'n nam, wood and valley with me sympathizing, Lament in dumb silence, the loss of Cuckoo.

The birds that perform the sweet concert of Nature, Are mournfully mute as thou bids them adieu, That tree thou oft sung on, tho' small in its stature, Complains that its boughs do not bend with Cuckoo.

"Why wont thou tarry and share in the plenty That Autumn provides us, as other birds do; For trust me, sweet songster, thou'dshare in each dainty, If thou o'er the sickle would sing us Cuckoo.

In Winter the peasant would yield thee protection, (His bounty in Winter oft feeds not a few,) Recal then, sweet bird, that sad note of dejection, And give us the vernal, the pleasing Cuckoo. But deaf to entreaty, thou flies from our vallies, No footstep can trace thee, no eye can pursue, The clown in the cottage, the prince in the palace, Thou leaves to lament thee, and sigh for Cuckoo. Sure climes far remote, thou art destin'd to visit, They wait for thy song, and they must have it too, Or here dost thou slumber, say which of them is it, Conjecture is lost in the flight of Cuckoo. But leave us thou must — forgive my weak wishes, Nature's law to invert, my presumption I rue; For in Summer, deep snow hanging thick on the bushes, Would alarm us no more than in Winter, Cuckoo* AaS AN ADVERTISEMENT Purposed to be hung round the Neck of the Buck's-head Kirkintilloch, for the perusal of Passengers. August, 1 807.

Huzza ! honest folks, here's the head of the Buck, To the wall of the house like a sun-dial stuck, Look up to its antlers, they're shining in gold, Its jaws they are open, its aspect is bold; Yet think not it frowns, for its looks are inviting, They welcome you all to good drinking and eating; Here equestrian travellers, stop all your horses, And weary pedestrians repose all your a-ses, Here chaises and gigs as you come and you go, Give your steeds the full curb, and dismount with a " wo," Enter in to the Buck, and believe me, you'll find The venison good, and drest up to your mind.

But lest you should think the poor beast tells a story, He wishes this catalogue just laid before ye, To prove that he promises nothing but what Is as plain to be seen as the crown of your hat.

His horns he will pledge for his rooms and his bedding, His beaf-steak, his broth, his veal-cutlet and pudding, His mutton, his bacon, his kipper, his ham, His seasonings all, mustard, jelly and jam, His teas and his sugars, his bread and his cheese, And all such etcetras, be they what they please; 283

And then for his liquors, they're all superfine, His spirits are nectar, his small beer is wine, His strong beer a cordial, porter so nice, If you taste of it once, you will drink of it twice; His bottles are crystal, cut crystal his glasses, How pleasing among them the gloomy night passes, So pleasing, were Bacchus to pass in a haste, He'd stop a whole week at the Buck's-head and taste.

And then for the balls of the young and the gay, Or any thing else that may come in the way, Such as shows, strolling-players, or auction of goods, Or public amusements that call upon crowds, The Buck has a hall, Sirs, so large and so neat, Our national Parliament, there could debate, Or the levy in mass in a shower, might assemble, When they rise up to make the proud Corsican tremble; Then step in all ye who this hint may discredit, You'll find it as true as the Buck's-head has said it.

N. B. A plague on the pen that did publish this note, One half of his bargains the Buck has forgot, His corn and his hay is the best in the country, His stables well litter'd, and here is the entry; Where next door at work you'll the farrier find, By the ring of his stithy and blow of his wind, He'll shoe all your horses, or visit their stalls, To roll them, or bleed them, or purge them with balls.

f 284

A LANG POEM ON LITTLE.

Little is in life my lot, Listen till I tell you o't, Little hope, little fear, Little debt, little gear, Little thought o' making mair, Little therefore is my care, Little in the world's esteem, Little I o' favours dream, Little caring how they go, Little is my share I know, Little drink, little meat, Little cold, little heat, Little sun, an' little show'r, Little pride, an' little pow'r, Little wisdom ye may guess, Little dread, and cunning less, Little hate, an' little love, Little in extremes I move, Little spleen, an' little spite, Little tho' a brother bite, Little rancour when the gay, Little tent me in their way, Little gifted, little grace, Little lineament o' face, Little could Lavater say on't, Little tho' he look'd a day on't, 285

Little mair than just 'tis one Little can be said upon, Little white, an' little black, Little aff the common mak', Little am I blyth or sorry, Little whig, an' little tory, Little caring for debate, Little in the tricks o' state, Little here, and little there, Little gadding every where, Little thinking, little doing, Little planning or pursuing, Little knowledge, little wit, Little skill to purchase it, Little praise, an' little blame, Little mair than just a name, Little notic'd in the crowd, Little ill an' little gude, Little house, an' little ha', Little farther can I fa'; Fate I min' thee not a spittle, Thou can harm me very little. 286

AN EPITAPH

©N J F ST, SEN. M T X. Here lies old J n F st, Thou Death that explorest, The haunts of mankind with thy bow, A heart truer steel, Thou never made feel, Than the one that thou here hast laid low.

Long, long, ere thy shaft, Commission'd, had left, . (To strike at his vitals) the string, The tortures of sorrow, Preceding thy arrow, With anguish his body did wring.

Yet ne'er a complaint, Nor a sigh found a vent, That could the least symptom betray, That ho thought his distress, Was yesterday less, Than the pangs that he suffer'd to-day.

His mind without stain, In the pursuit of gain, Did honour and interest unite; Go reader and pray, That at thy latter day, Such an epitaph candour may write. 287

AN EPITAPH ON MB. W T , WHO DIED IN THE ISLAND OF TOBAGO, JULY, 1801.

Free from the eare that life besets, Here rests his hardship W-ll-e Y s, Let Nature wide deplore him, A warmer heart Death never cool'd, Or stern misfortune's rigour school'd, Of all have gone before him. Let Orange-hill * lament his loss, And on his grave the lemon toss, A tribute to his merit, For sure this torrid parching clime, That swells the acid of the lime, Did ne'er his like inherit. No — warm as is this sultry shore, Or sweet as is the sugar's ore, When bursting from the cane, Yet warmer was his mould'ring heart, And sfweeter far his mental part, Let these his worth explain. Or still on simile to dwell, From yonder bay no fanning gale Cou'd more refreshing prove, To weary labour, faint and slow, When it began at night to blow, Than were his looks of love. * The Estate on which he died. 288

/ Ye sable tribes o'er whom he reign'd, When from a harder task unchain'd, Beside this grave sit down, Here howling mourn his early fate, While tears bedew each visage jet, Your tender master own. Compare his worth, and heave a sigh, (While waves the tyrant scourge on high,) With those that now maltreat you, His feeling heart your part did urge, He never drew that tyrant scourge, In wanton rage to beat you. He saw in Afric's gloomy race, That human majesty and grace That emulates the brave, He saw, tho' shrouded in a cloud, The gen'rous glow, the noble blood, The brother in the slave. That feeling throb for kindred woes, Then in his tender bosom rose, To virtue still belongs, He scorn'd to treat with cruelty, The lineage of another sky, Or triumph in their wrongs. Now roll ye billows round his grave, Let Pity sit on ev'ry wave, And sad a tear distil, Then back receding from the coast, Let her in soft distraction lost, Retire to Orange-hill. 289

AN EPITAPH ON MISS GARTSHORE, OF GARTSHORE, Who died at an advanced age, January, 1814. Here Miss Gartshore lies, Entomb'd 'mid the sighs, Of her mourning parochial poor, Who oft felt her aid, With an angel's soft tread, Try the latch of the hovel's dark door. Ostentation's pert air, Never, never came there, To blazon the donor's proud name, But Charity mild, With the looks of a child, That blush'd as it told why it came. Nor from hovels alone, Did her ear meet the moan Of misery squalid and pale; The edifice * rear'd To the want she ne'er heard, Can tell of her bounty the tale. Tho' now she no more Stretch her arm to the poor, (If a pious presumption's forgiven,) From regions above, Her looks still are love, And she pities and prays tho' in heaven.

* Having sent many liberal donations to almost every charitable institution in and about Glasgow, &c. Bb 290

AN EPITAPH

ON J S , LATE COOPER IN KIRKINTILLOCH, Of celebrated Poetical Memory, who died, January, 1814.

Here lies Johnny Bungs, Wha's stentorian lungs, Were loud in the Corsican's cause, But to the reason why, He could scarcely reply, Without picking his teeth in a pause. Yet Johnny was staunch, To his cousins the French, As ony blude houn', by my certy; An' his love to his sire, Was ne'er sic a fire, As his uncle cou'd raise — Buonaparte. But Johnny's now gone, An' his uncle's bit throne, That ance was o'er wide for the warl', We see wi' surprise, Now shrink to the size, An' the grist o' a gude herrin' barrel. 291

AN EPITAPH On Mr. A C , late of the Ship Bank, Glasgow, who died January 22d, 1802.

Cut off from life when Nature's ties were strong, Existence dear, and every doubt a wrong, Here lies the tender husband's mould'ring dust, The friend, the father, faithful to his trust. To fill .those stations well was all his care, And to his breast the wish he held most dear; For these in life his future schemes he plann'd, And follow'd bus'ness with a steady hand, Not to amass the miser's wretched store, But that content might smiling ask no more.

Firm in his friendship, candid in esteem, He was in heart what others wish to seem, Whoe'er obtain'd his fav'ring smile to-day, Were ne'er unnotic'd in to-morrow's way; Unlike the weathercock and changling race, Who change opinion with the change of place, .. And but caress, (some private end in view,) Then sport in secret, and traduce you too; The friend once valu'd, ne'er was dispossest For whims and trifles, from his manly breast.

Nor were the ties of blood by him forgot, Tho' distant lineage urg'd its claim remote, He still acknowledge with a virtuous zeal, A heart-felt pleasure in their sep'rate well; Bb2 292

And oft his int'rest nobly was applied To pluck the sting from sufficing merit's side, To heal the wounds by partial fortune given, And keep of life the wav'ring balance even; As husband, father, relative, and friend, His gen'rous conduct envy must commend.

O Death ! thou strikes and strikes thy deepest blow, Where thou expects the richest tide of woe, Thy victim here like some tall tower, appear'd To shelter others, by its builder rear'd; Thou saw its use, and traitor thou alone, Sapt every joint, and loosen'd every stone, Till crumbling down, it piece by piece decay'd, And here at last the edifice is laid, A mournful monument of earthly things, Of fleeting comforts, and qf lasting stings.

AN EPITAPH »N JOHN GARTSHORE, ESQ. OF GARTSHORE, Who died 20th December, 1 805, universally lamented for his affability and simplicity of Character.

Here lies John Gartshore, Now an Esquire no more, For titles desert the cold dust; From nothing we came, Without title or name, To primitive nothing we must. 293

While he dwelt upon earth, His ingenuous worth, Made him rank every man as his brother; Their merit was not In the cloth of their coat, Tho' some take this rule and no other. He ne'er was of those, Who the claim would oppose, That the poor are a part of the species, Tho' the grandeur they boast, Is the virtue they've lost, And the noble descent of their vices. The child in his way, The old mendicant grey, Could stop him to hear their discourse, Their distress or their news, Would relax his mild brows, • And open by magic his purse. Tho' he seldom at church, Did encumber the porch, Where they gather the alms of the poor, Yet his charities large, May his absence discharge, And the test of his feelings secure. His temper was soft, As witness how oft He protected the poor silly heron, That perch'd on his trees, With a confident ease, That would fretted a duke or a baron. BbS 294

With him, from the crows, Their inveterate foes, They were safe in his woodlands to breed, Their slow pinion'd flight, Was his theme of delight, As they winnow'd the air round his head. Take him all in all, Since Adam's first fall, (When pride and depravity enter'd,) You'll hardly find one, Like honest Squire John, Where wealth and humility center'd.

AN ELEGIAC EPITAPH On Jamie Tennent, late Apprentice with Baillie Fergus, ■ Kirkintilloch, who died of a Fever, June, 1809, in the 1 6th year of his age, and second of his time. Here lies wi' a sheet, O' cauld claith roun' his feet, Like an auld broken sherd o' a potter, A brisk little chiel, (Ye'll ken him fu' wee!,) Just wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter, * A fever severe, Laid poor Jamie here, (Tho' some folk may say, what's the matter?) I who write you this, Will lang cry, alas ! For wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter. * A Shop epithet, which he took in good part. 295

In the shop, by my faith, Amang heaps o' auld graith, He could handle his han's muckle better, Than some twice his length, An' double his strength, Just wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter. Then errands he ran, Like a nimble bit man, An' fear'd neither gravel nor gutter, Syne back in a blink, Wi' his message distinct, Cam' wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter. The Bailie may grieve, An' I (wi' your leave) For now I maun carry the water, An' soup out the shop, Sin' now there's nae hope, O' wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter. The besom an' pail, Whan Jamie was hale, Tho' dirt did the door-step bespatter, Soon clear'd it awa' For a hint was a law, To wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter. There's plenty fools cry, His place to supply, But e'en let them claver an' clatter, They are but thin sawn, (My lugs I will pawn) That will match wi' wee Tennent the Cotter. 296

O Death ! thou'rt a wretch, A lank greedy b — ch, As black an' as grizly's a hatter, Could na ane riper sair'd Auld Cadder kirk-yard, Than wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter. Wha wad think (thou's sae thin,) But a sma' puff o' win' Wad gar thy poor spindle-shanks totter, Yet a month an' some mair, Thou faught vera sair, Wi' wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter. At length he was beat, An' life forc'd to retreat, An' cross that dread bourne the Equator, Whar rows a dark sea; Then fareweel to thee, Poor wee Jamie Tennent the Cotter.

AN EPITAPH On Michael Johnstone, late Master of one of the Canal Company's Track Boats, who lost his life in that Navigation, near Falkirk, March, 1809. Within this cold grave, Dragg'd from the dull wave, Of the Forth and the Clyde Navigation, Lies the skipper, ye'll note, Of the Catharine track boat, Who with credit did long fill his station. 297

From Glasgow to Grange *, (You may think it was strange,) He could tell the Canal's ev'ry winding, And each fanciful twist, The whole length of its coast, Was known from beginning to ending. One would thought that a place, That so well knew his face, To old age his acquaintance would cherish'd, But alas ! at a lock, (With grief be it spoke,) By the side of its sluices he perish'd. He perish'd, where oft His bark rode aloft, And shoulder'd the sides of the building, While freed from the cord, And the lash of its lord, Stood in waiting, the wet weary gelding. Now wanderer here, If thou grudge him a tear, Thy heart is as hard as a whinstone, For his failings apart, A kind feeling heart, Warm'd the bosom of poor Michael Johnstojie.

* Being the western and eastern extremities of his diurnal naval excursions. 298

AN EPITAPH ON WHILPY DOG, A sweet little Pup, accidentally so called by a strolling Old Man, a deranged Original.

In death sleeping snug, Here lies Whilpy Dog, Crush'd, alas! by the cart's cruel wheel, Wi' a sigh for his fate, Each bosom must beat, That kend the poor canty wee chiel. His sports they were pleasing, His looks sympathizing, Wi' the smile, or the frown o' his master, The wag o' his tail, Will lang bring the hail, In grief for his woefu' disaster. That morn be lamented, That saw him contented, Trudge onward to meet his sad doom, While hope could descry, In the turn o' his eye, Fidelity's ripening bloom. But, ah ! soon the dawn O' hope was withdrawn, That promis'd attractions so dear, An' the black cloud o' night, O'er the morning sae bright, Hung gloomy, an' mark'd wi' a tear. 299

His grassy turf save, While grazing his grave, Ye cattle that carelessly feed, Nor tread on his breast, But leave him to rest, An' slumber his hours wi' the dead. Then writing his name, The daisy's sweet stem, Shall humble, tho' duteously rise, An' the lark shall it read, As she wakes from her bed, To pour her soft notes to the skies. Then mourn Whilpy Dog, Each meadow an' bog, Where cheerful he used to stray, Or popping his nose, An ant-hill discompose, The sweet little trifler's away. Let poor dog or rich, Let messan or bitch, Ne'er pass by this hillock incog, But their feelings confess, Wi' an howl or a For the fate o' their frien' Whilpy Dog. 300 FIRE-SIDE PHARMACY; Or, the Quack in request, a recent occurrence in Kirkintilloch. January, 1815. Lang Jamie the- Wright, Has by magic the slight, To cure without blister or bloodin'; To a deadly disease, He said, " March if you please," An' establish'd the health o' John G — d — n. Nae pulse he consults, Like a parcel o' dolts, Nor how aften they gang to the midden ; But looks, an' they're hale, If you scruple the tale, Just spier at his patient John G — d — n. Wi' Surgeons, John wrought, An' dear medicines bought, But Jamie sic folly forbiddin', Cry'd, " Johnnie arise, Ye gouk, an' be wise," An' a stout sturdy chieF made John G — d — n. Now Doctors an' drugs, May practise upo' hogs, If they wish for fresh pork or a puddin', While Jamie's in life, They'll ne'er put a knife, Or a dose o' their dirt in John G — d — n.

FINIS.

\~j !»■•£ ' :::■■ ■ I

::: ::: ->

,, » v„ -. ,^,i. iaej* ^»,_ '■ i Y ; ' V v, )';;.-

'*M,