POEMS, CHIEFLY IK THE SCOTTISH DIALECT. POEMS, CHIEFLY IN THE SCOTTISH DIALECT. BY ROBERT WILSON. " Whence is thy learning ? Hath thy toil O'er books consum'd the midnight oil ? * * The little knowledge I have gain'd Was all from simple nature drain'd. GAY. EDINBURGH : PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR; AND SOLD BY A. CONSTABLE AND CO. HIGH STREET, AND F. PILLANS, IS. HANOVER STREET. \ ,8M LOAN STACK TO l.f^fSL JAMES PILLANS, ESQ. PROFESSOR OF HUMANITY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF EDINBURGH, CI)t foiloixunjj ^Jocnis ARE HUMBLY AND RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED BY THE AUTHOR. &IR, wi' this simple rustic wreath, My warmest wishes I bequeath. Health haunt your brisket, wealth your spoung, Content your hame, an* wit your tongue ! Lang may you fill the honour'd Chair, An* pang your pupils' heads wi' lair ; Lang beet the bashfu 1 younkers' flame, That friendless seek the paths d 1 fame ; An* may the seed in ilka pow Braird bonnily, an* never dow. An' when your haffets, lirk'd an' lyart, Shew nature's wheels grow lag an* tir't, May some guid Angel bear my Patron Ayont the far'est blink o* Saturn. b TO THE READER. BENEATH a lowly roof o' straw, Did I the vital air first draw. When surly Winter held his reign Owre histy height an 1 level plain. Sae deep the snaw lay on each field, It ilka hedge an* dyke conceal'd ; While through iny cottage* chinky door The drift pil'd on the earthen floor : Sae neither gossiping nor mirth Attended on my humble birth. An 1 should the outset o' my rhymes Meet cauld reception frae the times, It's only what their author met, When in the world his nose he set. Soon thoughtless childhood passed the hallan, An' I at length became a callan', \VT a' the joys, an' hopes, an' fears, That houff the spring-time o* our years. When aught years auld, I took the bent A muirland farmer's flock to tent ; Vlli TO THE READER- Where aften on the mossy plain, I've brav'd the bitter sleet an' rain, An 1 heard the thunder's awfu' peal Contend wi* angry clouds o' hail ; An* though I trembled a* for fear, I lang'd anither peal to hear. Aft hae I, at the close of even, Slow daunder'd 'ncath the open heaven? My faithfu' dog, my only pride, A close attendant at my side, A n' viewed wi' joy gigantic shadow Slow stalkiri* owre ilk glen an' meadow, As the approachin' hour it tauld, That ca'd my hirsel to the fauld. Aft 'mang the lang brown heather laid, Weel row'd up in a muirland plaid, I've hearken'd to the drowsy hum O* wild bees as they past would come. The pleasin' croon o' twilight mild Had music in't sac sweet an' wild, An' sae impressed my youthfu 1 ear, That yet the strains mcthiuks I hear. Ev'n Winter wild, in awfu' forms, I lov'd to see ride on his storms ; An' when the deep-cov'd wreaths o' snow Hung frownin' owrc ilk mountain's brow, The sight did sac delight my ecn, I heeded not the tempest keen. I hae a mind (at least I think it) Wealth cannu raise't, nor poortith sink it TO THE READEE. IX Though humble born, I dinna blush, For embryo canna hae a wish ; An 1 well I ween, the finest blood Like mine rins but through mortal mud : Though men on earth hae different sires, One God the living soul inspires. The kittle bauk o 1 mortars kevel, Than man's aware, stands nearer level ; What munts aboon, pale fear abases, What sinks below, hope cheerfu' raises. I've met wi' monie hair-breadth 'scapes, In monie strange an* fearfu 1 shapes. Ere twice sax simmers I had seen Hapt in a plaid o"* lovely green, (Ah me ! but mortals little think, How aft they're near the fatal brink !) A threshin'-mill me nearly nickct, A surly bull me nearly sticket ; A nee in a loch my barns were soaked, I ance 'mang drift was nearly choaked. Ance at my breast, in heedless fun, A brither snapp'd a loaded gun. But Providence aye brought relief, To work some guid, or mair mischief. My hands hae us'd a* rustic tools, Plews, harrows, dibbles, howes, an* shools, Forbye the axe, saw, plane, an 1 hammer; An" now I hae ta'en up the grammar, Fir laithfiT pecpiii 1 past the hallen O' lovely Learning's meiiscfu' dwallm'. TO THE READER. Her look has set my breast a-lowe, wad my pen obey my pow, That cv'ry feelin' I might tell, That gars my soul wi' rapture swell, Which, new awak'd frae drowsy night, Is strugglin' at each pore for light ! Wi' Mantuan bard an* Homer's sang, Like minstrel's thairm my heart-strings twang ; An' when explain'd by noble speeches, Their force the inmost feelin' reaches. Since Learning blest my longin' view, A' nature wears anither hue ; Friends may forsake, an' fortune fling me, An' to the brink o' poortith bring me ; But knowledge still man's worth evinces, An' bears him on a line wi' princes. Expect na, Reader, here to find The produce of a cultur'd mind, That has explored the shinin' pages O' modern wits, or langsyne sages ; But fruit o' rough royt rhymin' function, That kentna adverb frae conjunction. Alack-a-day ! the menseless menzy Ere now hae jeer'd a chield to frenzy ; An' what will I, gin they attack me, Without some couthy carles to back me ? But, trustin' to the public candour, Where inexperience may wander, To save mair waste o' pen an' ink, 1 cut my cable, soom or sink ! CONTENTS. Maggie Weir, or the Power of Superstition, - 1 Elegy on the Death of Burns, 15 The Twa Craws. A Tale, - 19 Cawther Fair, - 39 The Twa Mice and the Rat. A Fable, - 47 A few Lines sent to the Author by his Friend Mr J. J. on the Pleasures of Infancy, 51 Answer to the foregoing, 53 Epistle to a Young Man, before taking up his Re- sidence in Edinburgh, - 57 Elegy on a Redbreast, which the Author found dead, having its wings stretched out on a heap of snow, in a severe storm, 63 Answer to an Epistle to a Friend, 65 The Auld Man, 79 Winter, 85 The Blackbird's Courtship, - - 88 A Simile, - - - 96 Epistle to Robert Sword, South Queensferry, 99 To the Same, 104 Epistle to the Rev. D***** C*********. - 108 The Fireside, - - 112 Xll CONTENTS. Page Maggy's Lament, 114 Robin and Marion. A Dialogue, 117 Wallace, 125 Epistle to a Love-sick Friend, 187 Song, Tune " Sleepy Maggie?* 141 Song, Tune" Whissle owre the lave oV," - 143 Song, Tune" Scots wha hae *' Wallace bled," 145 Song, The Parting, 147 ENGLISH POEMS. Sloth, 149 Pride, - - 152 Virtue, - 154 A Winter Night, - 155 The Exiled Lover, 157 'Tis sweet, 159 The Approach of a Thunder-Storm, 162 Lines written on Braid Hills, near Edinburgh, 164 Meditations in a Country Church- Yard, 167 The Last Judgement, 174 On the Independence of South America, 177 On Beauty, - 181 Lines written at the Burying-Ground of Meadow- bank, 182 The Orphan Bov, 183 Lennox Tower, 184 William and Mary. A Ballad, - 186 POEMS, CHIEFLY IK THE SCOTTISH DIALECT MAGGIE WEIR, Or the Power of Superstition : THERE liv'd a wife in days o' yore, Had witch an 1 warlock tales in store ; An' when the nights grew lang an* dark, An' ploughman chields lows'd frae their wark, The lads an' lasses us'd to mingle, An' crack their jokes at Maggie's ingle. Wi' fearsome tale or waefu' sang, Nae winter night to them seem'd lang ; An' Maggie, she cou'd brag at least As mony converts as the priest ! A For seldom it's been kent to fail, That either witch or warlock tale Is better minded than a sermon ; But what's the cause I'll no determine. Yet to ilk ane 'tis very plain, That Superstition's wide domain O'erspreads the warld in some degree, An' vot'ries has on land an' sea. There's no a raven can sit croakin' But what some mischief does betoken : Nae pyet haps upon the road, But some disaster does forebode : Nae maggot can in timmer click, But what's a dowie cauld dead nick ; Or gin a joint spring wi' the drouth, A fearfu' warning's there forsooth : (Though Superstition thus mistake, 'Twar wise cou'd we the warning take) : Or gin the wise sagacious cock Shou'd dream, an' craw at twal o'clock, Nane o' the house cou'd be mair fear'd, Although some stalwart ghaist appear'd ! There's something i' the sound sae drear, They lie an' shake, an sweat wi' fear.. Thus Superstition shews her power, An' reigns supreme at midnight hour. But lest the reader's patience fail, I'll now begin the promis'd tale. Imprimis, then, you understand, A little village stood at hand, Twa park or three breadth frae the steadin Whar Maggie Weir an' Johnnie baid in. Maist a' its inmates Maggie kent, An' wi' her mony an e'enin' spent. Ae night wi' her they did forgether, Some frae ae place, an' some anither ; Auld shepherd Wattie frae the hill, An' dusty Mungo o' the mill, An' sturdy Jock wha held the pleuch, Wi' Marion Crawford i' the cleuch ; Black-bearded Jamie frae the studdy, An' tailor Tarn, that pridefu' body ; Wi' gaudsman Rob, an' thrasher Patie, Black-e'ed Nan, an' blue-e'ed Katie, Weaver Ned, an' Jenny Pringle, War a' arrang'd round Maggie's ingle, Some sang a sang, some spier'd a guess, Some roasted taties i the aise. At last auld Maggie's fearsome tale Did owre ilk sang an' guess prevail. She tauld that aft the water-wraith HowFd shrieks o' dire forebodin* death ; How shepherds smoor'd amang the snaw, An* fairies bore young bairns awa' ; How witches dimm'd the moon an** starns, An brownies throosh at night in barns ; How Mary Owestin, in a rage, A Gallant's skin hung on a hedge ; How men seduc'd, syne murder'd women, Regardless o' their tears or screamin*. Ilk tale she tauld increas'd their fear, An 1 to the fire they crap mair near. Now a* war hush, an' harkit till her, Except the fearless dusty miller, Wha tried his eloquence and skeel, To prove there's nowther witch nor deil, Nor ony thing that could him fright, At ony hour in a* the night. u Weel," Maggie says, " sin' ye're no caring This night ye may gae hame wi' Marion, Down to the cleuch, 'tis something dreary, An* twa fouk mak the road mair cheery ; An' though her siller's no sae rife, I'm sure she'll mak a thrifty wife." " Content," says Mungo, " we'll awa', But hear ! the wind begins to blaw ; Marion, I hope ye're no afraid ; We'll get the len' o* Wattie's plaid, I'se gie him't safely back the morn, He's comin' to our mill wi' corn." " Aweel," says Wattie, " but tak care o't, For though it's auld, I think far mair o't, Than ony ither steek I hae ; An' should ye tine 'd, I wad be wae. It was the first my Jenny made me, Which on our waddin' day she gied me. Alake ! for now she's e'en awa', An* left auld plaid, an* me, an* a'." " Nae fear," says Mungo, " o' the plaid ; Guid-night t' ye a';" an' aff they gaed. They parted a', an' hameward sped, An' Maggie slippet till her bed. At auld John's back she snugly lay, An' little thought to rise till day. A sailor chield, the day before r Had chanc'd to beg at Maggie's door ; A pickle meal she had refused him, An' wi' her tongue right sair abus'd him 5 Said, her auld John was no sae able To work, an* yet he heap'd her table. The sailor swore an* vow'd revenge, An' said that night it wadna change, Till he wad set her house on fire, An* leave her nowther barn nor byre. The awfu* thought did keep her wakin', An' ilka lith an' limb war shakin' ; For she ilk moment did expect To hear him tirlin' at the sneck. A witty chield ca'd Andrew B**die, (Wha took his fun aff ilka body, He to his bus'ness was a wright, An* happened to be out that night, Seeing his lass, or playing tricks, As barring doors wi' muckle sticks, Or stapping lums wi' cabbage stocks) : Just now at Maggie's door he knocks ! An' when she heard the awfu' rap, Her heart out o* the hool maist lap ! She peepit up wi* tenty care, An* waesome like cried out, " Wha's there P" " A friend," says Andrew, " tint the gaet, That lodging wants, for now it's late." The auld gudeman cries in a fright, " We'll lodging gie to nane this night !" " Ye'll no ?" cries Andrew as he swore, " Then I will soon break up the door !" A moment ceas'd the dinsome quarrel, Then stanes he round the wa's did hurl. When tir'd, he stopt an' gaed awa' The easiest way for hame he saw. " O John !" cries Maggie, " we're undone ! Fye man, look sharp, bang to your shoon, * An* no be murderM i' your bed, I see the barns a' bleezin' red ! v Then ne'er a word mair Maggie spak, But up the little winnock brak ; Right clever through the hole she crap, An 1 owre the kailyard-dyke she lap, Syne ran like lightnin' through the park, * Wi' naething on her but the sark, T' alarm the niebours i' the town, That a' the steadin* was brunt down ? I The wind it howl'd wi' fearfu' thuds, The moon ran bickerin 1 through the cluds, Whiles hid entirely frae the sight, Whiles dimly seen, an* whiles mair bright ; The water-wraith's ill-boding din Came fearfu' on the sughin' win' ! Frae towers the ghaists an' howlets scream 1 d, An* thick an' quick the fire-flauchts gleam'd ! By this time Mungo hame was comin*, An* owre some cheery sonnet hummin', To keep his mind frae foolish fears, When, lo ! a desperate voice he hears, Cry, " Mungo ! Mungo ! Maggie furder * ! There's nought at hame but fire an' murder !" He owre his shouther gae a look, An' Maggie for some night-hag took. He ran ! in vain she cried she kent him, He ne'er again wad look behint him. Baith ran, while streaming back in air Was Mungo's plaid, an* Maggie's hair. A pool whar water stood right deep in, Whar Wattie us'd to wash his sheep in, " EKG. To help. Clean heels-owre-head baith tumml'd in't, An* Mungo Wattie's plaid there tint. Wi* speed he to the side did squatter, An* left puir Maggie i' the water. Syne hame he ran, burst up the door, An* swoon'd awa* upo 1 the floor. The landlord bang'd up in a fright, To try gin he cou'd get a light, But as he graipit for the lamp, He on puir Mungo chanc'd to tramp, Syne stamm'rin' brought it frae the brace, An' skailt the oil on Mungo's face. ('Twas lucky on that place it fell, It brought the miller to himsel'). " O landlord, landlord ! sic a fright," Says Mungo, " I hae gat this night ! I'll gang nae mair at night my lane, I'll never be myseP again ! As sure as e'er ye saw the sun, I saw a woman naked run, Wi* nocht o' covering on at a', Except a sark as white as snaw. Her hair did loose behint her flee, An 1 loud she holla'd after me. 10 My vera hair stood up wi' fright, I swat, an* ran wi' a' my might. Thro' park, thro' hedge, owre dyke an' ditch, For sure was I she was a witch. landlord ! but I hae paid dear For contradickin' Maggie Weir. Just whar the burn that ca's our mill Was damm'd by Wattie o' the hill, To wash his sheep on simmer last. There by the plaid she seiz'd me fast. Some o' her cantrips owre she mumml'd, Then headlang in the pool me tummlM. We warsled lang, she held me down, Nae doubt intendin' me to drown. At length out o' the pool I wan, A bonnie draigl't droukit man. 1 hameward bicker'd owre the bent, But left auld Wattie's plaid behint. To him I'll ne'er daur shaw my face. Oh ! war I in some ither place, I'll for a sodger list the morn, Ere Wattie Grey come wi' his corn." Now the guidwife in bed was lyin* 1 , An 1 Mungo's tale set her a-cryin 1 ; 11 The landlord for the howdie ran, I wat he was an anxious man : Wi' muckle speed he gat and brought her, But ere they cam', she had a dochter. By this time a* the town's alarm'd, Wi' forks, an' scythes, an' pokers arm'd ; The wives war greetin', men war swearin', An' Maggie now her hair was tearin', Cryin', " My man, my bairns, are kill'd ! Their vera beds wi' bluid are fill'd ! An' a' yer weel-kent Maggie's hame Is bleezin' in ae gen'ral flame !" Some ran wi' forks, some ran wi' flails, * Graips, scythes, whin-hoes, an' water-pails ; Some night-caps had on, ithers nane, Some twa gray stockings, ithers ane ; Some ran bare-legged a' thegither, Wi' yellow breeks o" 1 buckskin leather, Weel button'd hauf-way up their thees, An' buckles danglin' at their knees. The foremaist ran, yet took guid tent To see their niebours close behint ; The hinmaist keekit owre their shouther, An' like fear'd sheep, they ran a' throu'ther, 12 Ane cried, " It's time our staps war mendin', For now I see the flames ascendin' I" Anither cried, " O haist'ye, rin, For sure I heard a roof fa* in !" " Ah !" cried anither, " what a sight ! See how the sky reflects the light !" " Ah ! what a pity !" said anither, " Puir Maggie's ruin'd a' thegither ! Nae mair we'll round her ingle meet, The tiresome winter night to cheat." Tarn cried, the rogues gin he fand ance out, He'd wi' his labroad smash their brains out ! Pate, wi' his flail hung owre his shouther, Said he wad thresh them a' to pouther ; E'en hauf-drown'd Mungo swoor an aith, Gin ance the chields were put to death, He'd grund their banes as sma' as flour, Or onie simmer-sun dried stour. Thus as they marched on in haist, Each braggin' wha wad do the maist, They cam' at last to Maggie's steadin', An' fand John wi' the bairns their bed in The tailor crousc the cruisie lighted, Misca'd them a' for being frighted ; 13 He then concluded, in a dream, To Maggie a'thing real might seem. Wi' double courage aff he march'd, An' byre an 7 stable strictly searched, Lest onie corner thieves might lurk in, Nor yet begun their mischief wurkin'. A roofless barn he chanc'd to peep in, Whar Johnnie kept a cauf an* sheep in ; They, sair alarm'd at seem* the light, Cried, JJaa ! an' bang'd back in a fright. He roar'd out, Murder ! I am shot !" Syne tumml'd owre upon the spot. Some ae gaet ran, an* some anither, An* heels-owre-head they cowpit ither Into a pool wi' walth o* room in't, (For Maggie's geese war wont to soom in't). They fought an' toolied lang an' sair, Wi' cursin', swearin', ruggin' hair ; Ilk ane his nearest neibour strak, An' thought a robber on his back. Ah ! little Mungo thought, puir chiel', Sae soon to try his sodger skeel ! Now for his life he didna care, But fought- like ony Greenland bear ; 14 An' monie an honest woman's bairn Was nearly smoor'd that night 'mang shairn. Some tint their bannets, some their shoon, An 1 muckle skaith there might been done, Hadna the cluds unveiPd the moon. Now a', convinced they war mistaken, Swoor ne'er to do the like again. Like droukit flees frae the milk cap, Out o' the midden-hole they crap ; Some for their shoon an' bannets graipit, An' some their breeks an* jackets scrapit : Some tried to stem their bluidin* snouts. An some tied up their shins wi* clouts ; Syne cauld an' clarty hirpled hame, Nae doubt they a' thought muckle shame. 15 ELEGY THE DEATH OF BURNS " Quis desiderio sit pudor, aut modus, Tarn cari capitis ? praecipe lugubrcs Cantus, Melpomene, cui liquidaui pater Vocem cum Cithara dedit." Hon. COME a* ye minstrels, auld an* gray, An' stent yer strings, an' saftly play Some waefu' dowie langsyne lay, An 1 sadly mourn ; For Robin's gane, alack-a-day ! Ne'er to return. His sangs war a' sae saft an* clever, They gar'd a body's heart-strings quiver ; Alake ! that grousome death sou'd ever, Wi* shaft sae keen, Gar'd him sae soon an' laithfu* sever Frae his dear Jean. 16 Wha cou'd hae thought it wad been sae, When they forgether'd on the brae. An* unco frien'ship seem'd to hae. Ere they did part ; I wonder sair gin death was wae To throw the dart. Now cauld's the breast that us'd to glow Wi' nature's fire, the purest lowe ; His harp, that charm'd ilk heigh an' howe, Wi' chearfu' strain, Hangs tuneless on a laurel bough, To wind an' rain. Mourn, lovely Rose, o' flow'rs the wale ! Mourn, humble daisy, in the dale ! Mourn, gentle breeze, an' stormy gale, That swell the wave ! O whisper saft my waefu* tale, Owre Robin's grave ! Ye ragweeds wavin' owre the lee, Wi' yellow taps sae fair to see ; 17 Ye whins an' broom sae bonnilie That &ild the plain, Ilk little flow'r an' blossom tree, Come join my mane. Alack-a-day ! nae mair he'll view Or sing yer crimson-tipped hue, Bedeck'd wi* clearest blobs o' dew, Like siller sheen ; While wand'rin' 'hint the halesome plew At morn an 1 e'en. Mourn, cushats wild, in brake an* shaw, At mornin's dawn, or e'enin's fa' ; Ilk chirpin' bird, an' croakin' craw, For Robin mourn ; In Charon's boat he's e'en awa', Ne'er to return ! Nae mair ye'll hear him i' the spring, Ahint the plew sae blythesome sing, Or see him stauk, an' furthy fling Athwart the seed ; Or build the joyfu' harvest bing, For now he's dead, c 18 Mourn, wimplin' burnies, as ye rin Down 'mang the stanes wi' tinklin' din, Or whar owre brae or rocky linn Ye roarin* fa', Tell ilka trout that spreads a fin, Robin's awa*. Nae mair he'll sing yer siller stream, Bright glancin' 'neath sweet Luna's beam ; Yer braes, whar wild-flow'rs sweetly teem, Or rocky steeps ; Alack-a-day ! in death's lang dream He soundly sleeps ! Now winter may wi' fury blaw Its bitter storms o' hail or snaw, An' burns swoll'n grit wi' sudden thaw May tummlin' roar, An' Chanticleer in vain may craw, To wake him more. 19 THE TWA CRAWS : JL WA craws ae e'enin' i' the spring, That they might rest their weary wing, Sat on a tree hard by the Amon, Some twa or three miles up frae Cramon\ Somehow oppressed wi' love or care, In pensive mood I wander'd there, To see the lovely primrose growing An' Amon's moss-brown waters rowin*. When young, I've aften heard it tauld, That craws, like men, war wise when auld ; But never kent their sable beak To ought but burds or craws cou'd speak. Yet how it was I dinna ken, They baith began to crack like men. 20 The tane was grey aroun* the neck, Which tauld his years, an* claim'd respeck ; The tither was a bonnie black, Wi* een as gleg as onie hawk. Now ye wha like to hear a story, That eithly moves to mirth or sorrow, Lend me yer lugs, an* I sail tell, (At least sae far's I mind mysel'), How far that night the story ran ; The auld craw, croakin', thus began, AULD CRAW. Hech me ! how things are alter'd now, Sin* owre this water first I flew ; I then was e'en a stately craw As e'er wore feathers, neb, or claw ; But now it's aughty years an' mair Sin* I cam this way thro' the air. Fu' weel I mind the autumn morn, When fields war clad wi* beans an' corn, Awa* we flew to wade an* gather The berries ripe frae 'mang the heather. I mind fu* weel we lighted here, An' gat our gebbies cramm'd wi' bear ; 21 The fouk had something then to spare, Nor war their fields sae wat an* bare, As now ye see that ilka fur Wad drown a muckle towzie cur ; An' stacks like little cocks o' hay. Alake ! gin that be the new way To manage farms, an* mak corn plenty, I doubt they'll rather mak it scanty ; Then for theirsels to gather gear, Puir fouk an' craws will e'en pay dear. YOUNG CRAW. Atweel, auld friend, as ye're remarking See yonder sheep now gaun the park in, Amang green turnips feastin' rarely, While we puir craws hae din'd but sparely ; I think they're better at sheep-feedin', Than plewin' grund, an' castin' seed in. He's surely but a muirlan' gowk Wha hauds this farm 'mang lowlan' fowk ; Nae halesome braird at a* I see, But stibble rigs an' histy lee, Wi' nowt an' sheep a' hash'd an' puddled ; I think the farm is sairly guddled ; An* tho' I only am a craw, I'd managed better than them a'. AULD CRAW. True, my young frien', yet what'll ye say, The vera thought o't maks me wae ! For now-a-days there might be plenty, Baith corn an' bear, gin fouk war tenty, To sair their servants an' theirsels, To keep for seed, an' grund in mills ; An' something owre they weel might spare To burds an* craws when fields are bare. YOUNG CRAW. Alackanee ! it's ill to find A man sae sympathisin' kind ; Before they'd see a puir craw pickin', They'd rather thole a hearty lickin*. They think that craws sud feed on air, Sic way o' doin's far frae fair. But something, Sir, I fain wad spier, That's fash'd my harns for twa-three year ; Wha made this warld at first ? was't men ? Sure for my part I dinna ken, 23 But aft I've thought 'twas them that made it, An* war sae proud because they did it. wars ; There we will rest, Nae mair distrest Wi' aikin' heart or head, Nae trouble then, To cause us pain, Can follow when we're dead ! 108 EPISTLE TO THE REV. D**** c********* ALL hail ! thou reverend shepherd dear, Wha weel deserves a plaid to wear, May ye continue lang the fear O' ilka sin, An' poor doilt wand'rin* sinners cheer, An' wyse them in ! Ye've got yer kirk a* new repaired, The bodies hae their purses bair'd, Baith cash an* pains they freely wair'd, To mak it right ; T' enjoy it may ye lang be spar'd, It's unco tight. 109 Yer poopit now looks unco weel, Since sorted by yon handy chie? ; Lang in it may ye ramp an* reel, An' preach an' read, An* gar vile sleepy sinners speel The brae wi' speed ! Lang may ye herd yer little flock, An' aye be addin' to yer stock ; For, as the Bible is the lock, Be you the key To open when puir wand'rers knock, An' let them see The happy hills o' Paradise, Whare they may win without a price ; But gin they spurn yer sage advice, It's hard to say, But they may rue their being nice Some ither day : - To think they had the gospel preach'd, An' ministers baith flate an' fleech'd, An* for their Sauls'* sake them beseech'd To flee frae sin, 110 Fain will they then, if they could reach't, Their life begin ! But ah ! the hour o' mercy's gane, An' time is lost that they hae hae'n, The talents a' are frae them ta'en That they misus'd ; In hell, sic precious gifts are nane To be refus'd ! But, Reverend Sir, can ye me tell, Why thae wha do in wit excel, An' at tent preachings bear the bell, Wi f clav'rin' din, As soon's a paraphrase they smell, Start up an* rin ? Sic sweetness flows in ilka line, Whae'er daur say they're no divine, I really doubt they'll never shine In glorious light, But in a dungeon some day pine, As dark as night ! Ill Repeating tunes they downa bear, They say they hurt the modest ear ; But, Sir, I hope the time is near, When superstition Will frae her vot'ries far an 1 near Like woo come fleeshin' Fareweel ! may a" that's guid aye bless ye, May health an' plenty ever kiss ye, For gin ye dee, I'll sairly miss ye, An' monie mae, But frae my heart right weel 1 wiss ye, Whare'er ye gae ! Lang may ye herd yer pickle sheep, An' frae the hungry tod them keep ; An' when death in yer bower sail peep, May't bring good news, An' ye, like Stephen, fa' asleep Wi' the same views ! 112 THE FIRESIDE. WHEN a' the sheep are in the fauld, An' bodies kindly mingle, When winter-nights are lang and cauld, Around a bleezin' ingle ; What unco wonder tales are tauld, In prose or rusty jingle ; Ahint fouk's backs there's nane sae bauld, As by theirsels sit single, But closer creep, baith young an' auld, While a* their heart-strings tingle, At ilka tale ! 113 The runkl'd granny at her wheel, Owre some auld ditty chantin', To please the bairns she has great skeel, Gin fearsome tales they're wantin'. She ghaists an' witches kens fu' weel, What glens an' castles hauntin*, An' monie time she's heard the deil Deep groanin' thro* the plantin', Or kent a witch wha in a creel Owre hills an' seas gaed rantin' Maist ilka night ! Now warlocks, witches, wraiths, an' ghaists, Are a' brought on the carpet, Frae tale to tale, she thro* them haists, Till round ilk heart they're warpit ; An' deep the dire impression lasts, Nae time can out the scar pit, For in ilk buss a bogle rests, Wi' harpy claws keen sharpit ! Thus superstition sair infests, An' maks life like a taur pit, But happy he wha it detests, His nose but dread he daur pit Out onie night ! 114 MAGGY'S LAMENT. OOME, a* ye bards, wi* Maggy mourn, An' let yer tears rin like a burn, For things hae ta'en an unco turn, The tod has ta'en my cock awa ! Nae mair he'll rise us i' the morn, To houk the peats, or shear the corn ; The hens, puir things, sit now forlorn, Since he, puir beast, was stoun awa . f 115 Nae mair he will upon them chick, Or stand an' guard them while they pick, The tod has play'd an unco trick. The greedy beast's ta'en him awa ! Whene'er he clapt his wings an* crew, Strange things war tauld that aye cam true, A' future fates fu' weel he knew, An* yet the tod took him awa ! Now ghaists may gang at braid day-light, An* bodies fear as weePs at night, Nae mair he'll to their hames them fright, The tod has ta'en him clean awa ! I've met wi' losses monie ane, The length I thro' the warld hae gaen, An' quietly cou'd them a' hae ta'en, Hadna the cock been stoun awa ! O had the tod gaen to the laird, A supper he cou'd weel hae spar'd, The servants wadna muckle car'd, Altho* the tod had ta'en them a' ! 116 Nae mair the laird will get his kain, For hens can nae mak burds their lane, But lairds an* tods are a* like ane, For takkf puir fouk's hens awa ! 117 . ROBIN AND MARION : & Btalogur * OWILE the muir the blast blew keenly, Roarin* thro' the leafless wuds ; Rob an' Marion sat fu* beinly, List'nin* to the dreary thuds. MARION. Hear the hailstanes how they blatter, Och ! it is a fearfu' night ! Pity fouk on yird an' water, Near nae ingle's cheery light ! 118 ROBIN. Since within this auld clay biggin* Mess John tied our bridal baun', Saxty winters owre its riggin' Monie bitter blasts hae blawn. MARION. Aye, dear Robin, saxty seasons, Tho' it fernyerlike appears, Ilka runkle truly reasons We are waidin' deep in years. ROBIN. Then yer cheeks were plump an' rosy, Now they're wither'd, lang, an* thin ; Then yer teeth were white an' glossy, Now yer nose meets wi' yer chin. MARION. Whisht ye, Robin ! dinna tease me, Tho' my bluid rins thin an' cauld ; That is nae the way to please me, Tho' it's true, to ca' me auld. 119 Yet than me ye're sax years aulder, Now whan I get time to tell ; Therefore, lad, whase bluid rins caulder, Ye may brawly guess yersel. ROBIN. What tho' I hae rock'd yer cradle, Pu'd ye gowans frae the lee, While ye flicht'rin' us'd to waddle Round yer thrifty mither's knee ? First when Jamie Tamson taught us, Nae doubt I in bouk was mair ; Now we're wand'rin' in our aughties, Sax year's nowther here nor there. MARION. Robin, we fu' cosh thegither Thro' life's pools hae paidled lang ; Now we'll no cast out wi' ither, A* the gaet we hae to gang. 120 ROBIN. Weel, weel, Marion, since time's drawin' Near a close wi' me an* you, Ere we pay life's hindmaist lawin', Let us bygane days review. Tho' our frames, sae auld an' crazy, Downa pass ayont the door, Yet [the mind is seldom lazy, Youthfu' scenes to wander o'er. Even pain, when past, gies pleasure, Gin nae reuth be in the cup For a weary mind at leisure, Mix'd wi' bygane joys to sup. MARION. Och aye, Hobin ! to look backward, Life is like a fairy dream, Tho' our langsyne gaets now aukward To succeedin' mortals seem. I hae thought mysel as gaudy, Dress'd in hamespun worset gown, As a lord or captain's lady, Deck'd wi' a* the braws in town. 121 Women then war proud to boast o" 1 Makin' guid grey claith theirsel, Now their brag is, what's the cost o' Sic an' sic a piece the ell ! ROBIN. Nae doubt, Marion, fu's the warl', Now-a-days, wi* thriftless pride, Yet it's nae worth while to quarrel A' the time we here can bide. i Weel I mind the autumn e'enin' You an' I first took a wauk, Ae grey plaid we sat f u* bein in, Doun a bonnie briery bauk. J Up frae yont the briny ocean Redly raise the full orb'd moon, Gentle winds kept a' in motion, Soughin' bye wi' soothin' croon ! Owre our heads the starnies twinkled, Nature a' her joy exprest, Through my veins the bluid warm prinkled, As I held ye to my breast ! Lang we sat ! While I was keepin' Geordie Crawford's ewes neist morn, Weel I mind I fell asleep, an 1 Let them a' amang the corn. MARION. Aye, but Robin thae days now are E'en awa ne'er to return, Auld acquantance^very few are This side o' life's boundin' burn ! Lang we hadna'slept thegither, An* ae blanket hapt us baith, Till ye lost yer worthy father, His was e^en a sudden death ! ROBIN. Weel I mind he cam to see us, Aught days after Kirsh was born, Stayed a ch eerie fortnight wi" us, Helpin' me to stook the corn. 123 Aft our bonnie bairn he blest her, Frae a bosom warm an 1 leal, Doim his cheeks the tears did glister While he bade us a' fareweel ! ' Aft he turned about an' lookit, As he scram'led owre the law, S}/ne his bannet aff he took it, Wav'd it round his head o' snaw ! MARION. We hae met wi' monie losses Through misfortune's bitter blast, Yet for a' that, seemin' crosses Aye turn'd out for guid at last. While we snug an' dry the land on, Sit an' hear the tempest rave, Some nae buss can claught their hand on Toss'd upon a dangVous wave ! 124 ROBIN. Marion, mind to hap the ingle, I'll awa slip to my bed, Houpin' sune frae warldly ping e You an 1 me will baith be redd ! 125 WALLACE. " How sleep the brave, who sunk to rest, By all their country's wishes blest." COLLINS. JJouN a romantic glen o'erhung wi* rocks, 1 chanc'd ae gloamin pensively to stray, An' saw a shepherd tent his wandrin' flocks ; Amang the knowes the lambkins ply'd their play ; His scanty hair hung wavin' silv'ry grey, Wi' lirks o 1 time his face was furrow'd o'er ; Fast by a wimplin' burn he musin 1 lay, That murm'rin' kiss'd the primrose-cover'd shore, As down the lonely howe the crystal waters bore, * 126 II. A rustic whistle frae his plaid he drew, For lack o* usin' it was harsh an 1 dry ; To mak the notes flow mellow, clear, an' true, He douk't it in the burn that wimpled bye, Syne to his withered lips did it apply, An' fiird the glen wr* wild enchanting strains ; Frae cave to rock the echoes made reply, Then faint an* low wide scattered owre the plains ; I faund the vital rill rin warmer through my veins. III. Fast by a cowe bedeck'd wi' gouden bell, On foggy brae I lonely laid me doun, While gloamings misty mantle slowly fell, An* winds sough'd owre my head wi' mournfu' soun'. His faithfu' cur, wi' coat o' glossy broun, Fu' wistfu' sat close by his withered knee, An' lick'd his trembling hand, syne lap aroun', An* row'd an' tumml'd on the flow'ry lee, Wi' monie playfu' freiks, to glad his master's ee. 127 IV. His lay was sad, an' lade wi' ither years ; His country's dool, her darlin' hero slain By treaeh'ry, brought frae his een saut tears, While thus to Heaven he poured his plaintive strain. " Flow fast my tears, ye dinna flow in vain, Ye're for the guid, the warlike, an' the brave, Wha now forgotten an' unkend remain Aneth the cov'rin' o* a cauld dank grave, For aye overwhelmed deep in dull lethean wave. V. O Scotland ! ance yer far-fam'd rough burr-thrissle Its waefu' head hung bendin' to the grun', An* thro* its auncient beard, wi' eerie whissle, Snell blew oppression's blightin' haury wun', Dark dreary days, without a cheerin' sun To shed owre broomy knowes ae hopefu' ray ; Bluid-shorin' duds anon cam rowin' dun, An* frae yer ee dark dern'd the face o* day, For a' yer flowers o' freedom far war wed away. 128 VI. Yer heath'ry hills, an* primrose cover'd braes, The pride an' boast o* warlike days o' yore, Were sair o'eraw'd by bluidy southron faes ; An* monie a sheugh ran red wi' reekin' gore, That ne'er was wat wi' Scottish bluid before. Maist a* yer chiefs were kill'd or captive ta'en, The sacred croun frae aff yer head they tore, An* eke awa they bore yer chair an* stane ; Than Scottish valiant kings that e'er had rested nane. VII. Lang ye sat broodin' owre the dolour ills, An' view'd o' liberty the last remains. A scanty flock ran tentless owre yer hills, Nor owsen graz'd nor turn'd yer fruitfu' plains, But slavery cam clankin' wi' her chains ; Fu' weary groanin' 'neath the gallin' load The doolf u' sight yet fresh yer mind retains ; Then seemin' justice sway'd her iron rod, An' made yer hills an' glens of wae the sad abode. 129 VIII. But as the day-star climbs the rosy east, An' flegs the sable clouds o' gloomy night, So rose a hero out o' fortune's breast. An' round him spread a cheery skyrin light ; Wha soon himsel in weirlike weapons dight, An* gar'd yer faes afore him flee wi' speed ; Nane could withstand an arm sae fu' o' might, That wrought amang them sic unsonsy deed, As made their bauldest men sleep aften but the head. IX. Yer weal, O Scotland ! was his ilka thought, An' twin'd his weary een o' balmy sleep ; Yer mortal faes sae furiously he fought, Till frae his claes the crimson moist wad dreep, An' a' yer flow'ry plains in gore-bluid steep. Whare Carron water rows the moss-brown wave, His dauntless arm aft rais'd a doolfu' heap O Southron carcases, wha wi' him strave ; Yet monie a clever chield fand there a bluidy grave. R 130 X. There fell the brave, by jealousy misled, There fell the Graham, o' warriors the best ' Alake ! that envy e'er should find a bed, To bloom an' flourish in a chieftain's breast, An* twine his saul eternally o' rest. The noblest deeds that hand or head atchieves, Its haury breath, like to a grievous pest, Strews a' their honours like sere autumn leaves, Yet mair its wretched owner than its object grieves. XI. The gloomy Fates that day owre Falkirk spread Their bluidy far-extended raven wings ; An' monie crimson draps that day were shed, That might hae flow'd in veins o' noble kings., O Scotia's daughters ! strike the tremblin' strings, An' mourn the hapless maidens o' that day ! Think how despair would sharp her venom'd stings, An' in their lily love-lorn bosoms prey, To see the flow'r o' youth lie speechless on the clay ! 131 XII. Methinks I see a maiden search the plain, Wi' ruefu' ee she marks ilk bluidy face, An' wi' her apron dights the gory slain. If haply she her lover's likeness trace, She clasps him bluidy in her fond embrace, Nor thinks him cauld ! So strong is plighted love, Not even death can its firm bands unlace, When wi' the soul the object's fondly wove, Love-disappointed minds in shades of frenzy rove ! r XIII. Besmear'd wi' sweat, wi' dust, an' clotted gore, Wae-worn an' weary, aft would Wallace lie, While on him fell the night's cauld cranreuch hoar, Wi' a' the storms that haunt a wintry sky. The heavy groan, an' doolfu' broken sigh, O' wretches mangled in the awfu' fight, Mix'd wi' the howlin' wind an* howlet's cry, Was aft his music thro' the lang dark night, In wood or wild, far frae his ingle's cheery light. 132 XIV. Aft new-faun snaw the chief for sheets wad serve, An* tuft o' frozen grass bore up his head : Alake ! it is na them wha best deserve The sweets o 1 life, wha aftenest on them feed i Aft worthy mortals crave a little bread Frae those wha drive them hungry frae their door ; While those are feasted weel wha little need A brither's help, but hae themsels great store. Rich always gie to rich, but poor oppress the poor." XV. He paus'd, an* thro' the glimm'rin' hollow glen The mournfu' echoes dee'd awa in air. " Alake !" said I, " man's sorrows wha can ken, For here he wastes his days an' hours wi' care. may I for life's lourin' storms prepare, An' hae my breast in virtue's weapons dight ! Syne, tho* the frowns o* fortune be my share, 1 needna wauk in robes o' gloomy night, For nought can stand 'gainst lovely virtue's wondrous might." 133 XVI. WP withered whins he fenc'd his divet fauld, On Rover whissled, syne began to wend Round a deep scaur, to seek his hamely hauld, Where aft he's lain an heard the storms contend. His thrifty wife his summons does attend, An' gars the cheery ingle brighter blaze ; For weel she kens their weelfares a' depend On his gray pow, for meat an' needfu' claes, A sireless haudin aft has monie nameless waes. * XVII. I follow'd near, for darkness 'gan to spread, An' lourin' cluds hung shorin' in the west ; An' hearin* aft that shepherds were deep read, An' o* great knowledge gen'rally possest, I knew my mind wad never be at rest, Till I had learnt the tenor o' his lay, Wi* which his spirits seem'd to be depress'd, As mournfully he by the burn did play : Sae to his humble cot I anxious bent my way. 134 XVIII. 'Twas situate upon a risin' ground, Twa aged elms their branches reared on high, A dyke o' fail inclos'd it neatly round, Afore the door a burn ran wimplin' bye ; Cam frae the elms the craw's ill-bodin' cry, The bum-clock wheelin' crooned its drowsy sang. Now thro' the cluds the curlew sought the sky, Or swept the echom* hills, while burds amang The heathery knowes, in concert sent their notes alang. XIX. I reached the door wi' canny stap, to hear What conversation pass'd within the wa's ; Thro' the latch-hole I saw the fire burn clear, An* on ilk tongue there hung a pensive pause. Yet o 1 the silence soon I kent the cause, To worship God they newly were combined, For puir fouk aft- times wauk by scripture laws ; An' tho' by polish'd art they're no refin'd, They leave the learned wit in virtue far behind. 135 XX. I listened eagerly to a 1 that pass'd, Nor wad hae had o 1 list'nin' ony tire, Hadna the howlin' o' the drivin' blast, An* the sweet welcome o' a bleezin' fire, Made me right glad to ask the aged sire, Gin he wad shelter to a wand'rer grant, Until the shades o' night should back retire ; For rain an' darkness sair lone travelers daunt, An* far frae hame some friendly bield they often want. XXI. & He op'd his little door wi* cautious care, An' said, " Wha's there ? Ye've surely tint yer way ; Come in, o* what I hae partake a share, An* freely rest yersel till it be day. But why sae late, yoang stranger ? Do you stray ? It's dangerous at night to cross the muir ! False lights the wand'rer' s staps aft-times betray, An' to some pit or precipice allure. But come in-owre, ayont my ingle rest secure." 136 XXII. I thanked him fu' leal but mair ado, Syne stapt ayont the fire an 1 sat me doun ; Say they, " Our visitors are here but few ;" A buffet-stool then plentifully croun Wi' milk, cheese, butter, an' wi' bread right brown, An* aften press me to their namely cheer. Said I, " To taste yer cheer I winna frown, For hamely treat to me is always dear." Wi' mony a lang windin' tale they charm'd my ear. XXIII. The tales being ended, in the humble cot, Weel-pleas'd an' cheerfu' a' retir'd to bed. A' still was hush'd, save when its drowsy note The pointer click'd, an' tauld the moments sped : The full-orb'd moon her silv'ry rays clear shed Thro' the crack'd peen, an' shaw'd the heather bloom That press'd my cheek, an* a' my sorrows fled, To seek for shelter in some gaudy room, Where they might nestle in the produce o' the loom. 137 , EPISTLE TO A LOVE-SICK FRIEND. I ' . To daut owre muckle on a woman, In man is very unbecomin' ; His dignity an 1 worth he losses. An' meets for love eternal crosses. Soon as she claughts his rulin' rein, He seldom can the goal attain ; An* then his case is truly worse Than onie hackney'd auld coach-horse. He tholes her taunts an* pridefu' scornin', An 1 sighs, an' swears his liver's burnin' ! The man owre fond o' Cupid's school, Is aft a starin* stupid fool. s 138 Since a' things hae their proper season, Keep a' within the bounds o' reason ; Nor think to gain the fair's respect, Because you ither things neglect. Beware ! gif reason's robe you rend, It's hard to say whare you may end ; The hemp, the steel, the rock, the river, Has cool'd ere now a burnin' liver. Tho' in this warld ye've tint a' houp, Be sure ye look afore ye loup : When ye hae pass'd yon drumly burn, Altho' ye rue, ye canna turn. Ye say ye ance could read an* think, An' now ye canna sleep ae wink, But restless tummle on yer bed ; Alakanee ! yer wits are fled, Or ye wad never glowr sae wild, An' deem a paughty look sae mild. Ye sleep, an' dream, an' start by fits ; Whiles Cupid on yer pillow sits, An' crowds yer love-bewilder'd brain Wi' foolish thoughts, baith void an' vain. Now like a craw you cleave the air, To bring rich treasure for yer fair ; 139 An 1 aft-times wonder why ye can Sae swiftly flee, an* still a man. Now on some tow'r or tott'rin' wa', That seems at ilka nod to fa 1 , Ye hing ; yer bluid it curdles cauld, To think, gif ye should quat yer hauld, The gloomy waves that row below Wad gulp ye owre the head in fro' ; Then in some dark infernal deep, 'Mang stanes, an banes, an' fishes sleep ! Ye lose yer grip wi' fear, ye waken, Fu* glad to find yersel mistaken. Again ye sleep, ilk flow'ry field Hauds out the rose, the thorn concealed ; While she wham you sae much admire, Wauks by yer side in rich attire. Her cheeks appear a lovelier dye Than e'er was seen by wakin' eye ; The coal-black ringlets o* her hair Float loosely in the wanton air ; Her lily neck, an' snawy arms, Her witchin' een, yer soul alarms To sic a height, ye think a kiss Is a' ye want to perfect bliss ! 140 Ah, short-liv'd bliss ! fell Chanticleer Dispels it wi' a mornin' cheer ! It flees, an' leaves yer burnin' brain To tell that dreams an' love are vain : For tho* some mighty thing it seem, On earth at best it's but a dream. Rouse up yer spirits ! Fye for shame, To cringe to ony dorty dame, An* waste yer youthfu' gowden hours ; Arise, exert yer utmost pow'rs, To what may ser' yer country's weal, Wi' gray goose-quill or temper'd steel. Since life at maist is but a span, Improve it as becomes a man. 141 SONG. TUNE - Sleepy Maggie." JL HE rosy ee o' virgin morn Ilk hoary tow'r an' turret painting Blythesome sounds the huntsman's horn. An' wild-burds a' are sweetly chantin\ CHORUS. O are ye wdkin\ Netty <, O are ye wakin, Nelly, ^ Rise, my Jove, an? come awa, We'll brush the dewjrae hill art valley. 142 Taste the mornin' while it shines, Waste it not in useless slumber, Ere the sun o' youth declines, Ere auld age our staps encumber. O are ye wakin', &c. We'll drink the halesome caller breeze, To yon lovely grove we'll wander, Whare below the blossom'd trees, The bonnie wimplin burns meander. O are ye wakin', &c. We'll gather flow'rets wat wi' dew, Ere the sunny rays destroy them ; Since our hours, like theirs, are few, Rise, my love, an' let's enjoy them. O are ye wakin', &c. 143 SONG. TUNE" Whissle owre the lave eft. I LOO a lassie, she loo's me, Her for the warld I wadna gie. Yet thro' it a' I'd wander wi* The lass I loo sae dearly. Her sparklin' een a violet blue, Her lovely cheeks a rosy hue, Her artless heart is warm an' true, An* loo's me most sincerely. 144 Her light-brown ringlets loosely flow Around a neck o* driven snow, An' a' my vitals warmly glow. Whenever she comes near me. Let fortune frown, let fortune smile, Her gifts are scarcely worth my while, As lang as I wT honest toil Can keep my charmin' dearie. 145 SONG. TUNE" Scots wha hoe T Wallace bled: 9 O MY lovely Sue was fair, Dark-blue eyes an' flaxen hair ; No ae nymph could e'er compare Wi* my dear lovely Sue. Aft hae I gather'd wild strewn flow'rs, 'Mang the sweet romantic bow'rs, An* spent fu' monie heartsome hours, Wi* my dear lovely Sue. 146 My arms around her waist wad twine, Like ivy round the gracefu' pine ; Her form methought was quite divine, Sae lovely was my Sue. But ah ! the flowrets wild now wave Owre her peacefu' lowly grave ! Alake ! for death did me bereave Of my dear lovely Sue. How pale the cheek that ance was red, The rose-blush now is frae it fled. For cauld's the pillow an' the bed Of my dear lovely Sue. Altho' the grave her body hide, An' death's dark river us divide, Yet in my breast shall still preside The image o' my Sue. 147 SONG. THE PARTING. maks ye sae forlorn an' wae, An* tears sae fast to fa', Mary ? Ye needna fear, ye'll still be dear, Tho' I am far awa, Mary. My dearest fair, do not despair, Yer like I never saw, Mary ; But why sae pale, yer spirits fail, Yer hand's as cauld as snaw, Mary ! 148 Tho' fortune frown, an* friends disown, I'll follow Nature's law, Mary ; An' gin the wave my body save, 111 tak ye 'fore them a', Mary. > The wanton gale now swells the sail, An' fair the breezes blaw, Mary ; Tho' now we part, ye hae my heart, Fareweel, I maun awa, Mary ! ENGLISH POEMS. " SLOTH. Vitanda est improba Siren Desidia." HOB. INSIDIOUS Sloth her drowsy note prolongs, Soft as the fabled sea-maid's luring songs. Who haunt the caverns of the oozy shore, That echo back the bounding billow's roar. Loose float their golden tresses on the gale, But wrapt in sea-weed sleeps their slimy tail. 150 In life's gay morning, rosy and serene, So Sloth and Pleasure paint their fairy scene, And tempt th' unwary from fair Virtue's path, To wander blindly 'mongst the haunts of death. What though the verdant landscape richly teems With flow'rs and vales, woods, groves, and murm'ring streams ; Yet on fair nature's most enchanted ground, Fell hissing snakes and beasts of prey abound. Youth is a port beset with many snares, Where man his cordage and his sails prepares With all things meet, that fortunate he may O'er life's rough ocean steer his bark of clay ; His senses sailors, and the freight his soul, His compass books, and happiness the goal. The sons of industry their labour ply, Nor from the object once avert the eye. The sons of sloth indulge the vacant gaze, Nor dread th' approach of life's declining days. Elate with hope, both launch into the deep, And o'er the slumbering waters stately sweep. But mark the end the mustering winds arise, And sable clouds enwrap the thundering skies : 151 The well-prepar'd their course victorious urge, And rise sublimely o'er each foaming surge : But ah ! to brave the storm what now avails Sloth's rotten cordage, and her musty sails ? A broken billow roaring whelms them o'er,- They sink inglorious, and arise no more ! 152 PRIDE. JLRIDE is a robe that wraps the silly mind, And makes its owner to his failings blind. By all 'tis hated, and by all 'tis priz'd, Not in ourselves, in others 'tis despis'd. Each other's failings, not our own, we spy, Because we never inward turn the eye. Who's only weighty in his own esteem, In others' eyes is sure to kick the beam. Can galling sneer, or seeming cold neglect, Or haughty look, command sincere respect ? Dost thou in riches all thy worth compute, Or splendid grandeur of a costly suit ? 153 Deck thou an ass in all thy rich array, Will the fierce lion tremble at his bray ? With all thy riches and thy boasted power, What art thou but a sickly fading flower ? What ! does the sun more bright upon thee shine, Than on the poorest worm of Adam's line ? Runs the fresh water clearer from the spring, Or do the birds to thee more mellow sing ? Can thy eye feast on charms of , nature more, Than the poor wandVer spurned from thy door ? Does sleep more balmy in thy chamber dwell, Or the fair rose yield thee a sweeter smell ? Does friendship warmer in thy bosom glow, Or canst thou feel more for another's woe ? Are nature's ties in any way more dear, And for their loss hast thou not equal fear ? Wast thou less helpless in thine infant years, Or stand'st more firm when hoary age appears ? Can all thy sumptuous feasts more health afford, Than simple diet from a simpler board ? In the cold grave wilt thou more softly rest, Or worms less vulgar riot in thy breast ? 154 VIRTUE. JL HO 1 blackening storms and furious tempests rise, And mountain-billows in confusion roll ; Though shattered navies sweep the groaning skies, And horrid thunders shake the steady pole ; Though nature, wrapt in most terrific stole, Hang trembling on eternity's dread maze ; Fair Virtue will uphold the sinking soul, And unasham'd her heavenly head upraise, When all creation vast is wrapt in gen'ral blaze ! / 155 . A WINTER NIGHT. THE moon-beams smile sweet on the snow-cover'd hill, Not a cloud dims the face of the sky ; The stars shine most clear, and the winds slumber still, Each fountain, each streamlet, each river and rill, All frozen in silence now lie. The trees are all wrapt in their night-robes of snow, The hedge-rows are all sparkling hoar ; The cove-o'erarch'd summits their shadows wide throw CTer the once verdant vallies that sleep far below, And delight the sweet lambkins no more. 156 The icicles hang from each cottage and bower, Reflecting the moon's paley beam ; The windows are garnish'd with many a flower, By nature's cold pencil, the frost's chilly power, Like the wild fancy-work of a dream. 157 THE EXILED LOVER. t BOM the cleft of a rock, that overhung the proud main, Where a mountain-ash wav'd its lone boughs to the wind, A poor exiPd lover I heard thus complain, And sigh for his Helen he left far behind. " Awake, my lone harp, and strike thy last number, O tell me of Helen and days that are past ! Then rest thy tir'd strings in profound lasting slumber, Or sing o'er my woes to the howl of the blast. 158 O Helen ! though loud roars the high-foaming billow, And proud waves of ocean between us now roll, Yet no other tresses shall e'er share my pillow, And no other maid can be queen of my soul. O sea ! bring a wave that has bath'd that fair blossom, The flower that has robbed my fond soul of its rest ; O how would I hug the green wave in my bosom, And kiss the dear water that lav'd her white breast ! O winds ! will ye tell my fair Helen I love her ? O waves I will you waft a warm kiss from the shore ? Ye sweet little stars that now twinkle above her, Reflect but a glimpse of the maid I adore ! 159 'TIS SWEET. JL is sweet in the twilight to rove, When the winds of the desert are still, And list to the sweet cooing dove, Or the streamlets that wind down the hill 'Tis sweet then to list to the horn, When its notes echo mellow and clear, As along the soft breeze they are borne, And delightfully fall on the ear. 160 "Tis sweet, while we wander in spring, To see the green braird tipped with dew ; And list while the wild warblers sing, Or welcome the stranger cuckoo. 'Tis sweet in gay summer to see All nature in rich virgin bloom ; While the blossom hangs fair on each tree, And the winds waft delicious perfume. 'Tis sweet, in a fair autumn morn. To wander the vallies among, While the fields wave with ripe yellow corn, And list to the 'reaper's rude song. 'Tis sweet, at stern winter's return, When the cold stormy evening howls dire, To see the trim lamp dimly burn, And before us a bright blazing fire. 'Tis sweet when a friend we can find, In whom we may safely repose The troubles that weigh down the mind, And share in our joys and our woes. 161 "Pis sweet when fond parents too see Their children in virtue excel, Nor the babe that once sat on the knee, Against the fond mother rebel. 'Tis sweet, when no tell-tale is nigh, To clasp thy dear maid in thy arms ; While her heart fondly beats a reply, And innocence heightens her charms. 'Tis sweet in chaste wedlock to join, With one of a virtuous mind ; This only is pleasure divine, And all other leaves far behind. 'Tis sweet, when with sorrow we're prest, And tossM upon fortune's rdugh wave, To know that the righteous shall rest In quiet at last in their grave. 162 THE APPROACH OF A THUNDER-STORM OEE how the dark red clouds, all limnM with fire, Look dimly awful through those louring hills, That roll a dunner hue ; while some more black Than darkness 1 self can paint, hang forth such gloom As fills each mind with dark foreboding awe ! The very beasts that thoughtless graze the fields, In wild amazement gaze towards the heavens. Lo ! in a moment, quick before the eye, The vivid flash darts through the thickening clouds ! Anon terrific peals, with horrid clang, 163 First stun the ear, then far and hollow sweep The groaning hills, and die on wounded air. Again the flash* again the peal resounds ! Hark, all the windows shatter, and the earth, Deep trembling to its base, howls from each cave ! Heard you that crash ? See where the stubborn oak Lies stripped of all its honours on the ground, And through the air the foliage whirl'd on high ! 164 ..... LINES WRITTEN ON BRAID HILLS, NEAR EDINBURGH. .How pleasant to wander where wild-flowers are growing, Or on soft mossy carpet reclining to lie, Where the far-spreading landscape in rich beauty glowing, Hills, vallies, woods, waters, at once meet the eye. See clouds heap'd on clouds, in majestic confusion, While through evVy opening the ether looks blue ; For man to explore it, 'tis all a delusion, BewildVing immensity darkens his view. 165 See lambs sporting round us in innocent pleasure, 'Hong sweet-scented whins and the long yellow broom, While from their rich blossom the bees gathering treasure. Impregnate the air with delicious perfume. The breezes sigh softly with health on their wing, And join in sweet concert the warbling choir, Whose hearts light with joy most sweetly now sing, And straw-whistling numbers outrival the wire. How happy that man to whom nature has given An eye to behold, and a mind to admire ; With health and contentment to walk through a heaven Of beautiful nature, that never can tire. What cares he for envy, for malice, or slander ? He knows they are wild-weeds that darken the mind ; He pities poor mortals in darkness who wander, And light beaming round them, yet love to be blind. His mind, taught to soar above low grov'lling wretches, Who creep on this earth like the slow crawling toad, At wisdom, at virtue, at honour he catches, Nor has he a fear but the fear of his God. 166 With friendship and love^glowing warm in his bosom, He walks 'mong the flowers by some sweet winding burn, Or on the green banks now will softly repose him, And dream of those pleasures that cannot return. Now green woods blush red, and the night-star's ap- proaching, Slow climbs the dark shadow up the eastern hills ; The grey-winged twilight by stealth is encroaching, Farewell, ye wild songsters, ye lambkins, and rills. 167 MEDITATIONS IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. " Be death your theme in every place and hour, Nor longer want, ye monumental sires ! A brother tomb to tell you you shall die." NIGHT THOUGHTS. I. HERE let me pause, and lean upon this stone, While the lone night-winds soft and mournful sigh, And count the number o'er I once have known To live, and muse, and talk, as well as I. They in these narrow heaps in silence lie, Nor heed the tempests that may o'er them rave ! The loudest peals that roll in troubled sky Can ne'er disturb the tenants of the grave, Till Arch Michael's trump shall rend the vast concave. 168 II. How fast the crowding thoughts upon me rush, Of friends, acquaintance, here in lasting sleep ! To rest they every worldly passion hush, And on the grave my wand'ring fancy keep. Yes ! well I may in sad reflection weep, To think of mortal man and all his woe, The gulph of ruin, dismal, dark, and deep, That rolls its sulph'rous waves of fire below, Where the dread vengeance dwells of an Almighty foe ! III. Ye sons of pleasure, listen to my lay ! No feigned strains of woe shall fill your ear ; Here likewise lie who once like you were gay : They too demand the tribute of a tear, And deep reflection well may profit here, To learn the littleness of earthly bliss. The dead can teach, if living men would hear, More than large volumes from the fruitful press ; But ah ! the more death reigns, men think of it the less. 169 IV. O Death ! this is thy storehouse, here thy spoil, Thou dauntless warrior, thou gloomy foe ! Back from thy havoc how my thoughts recoil, And thro 1 my veins the blood runs chill and slow ! For O I thy storehouse is a scene of woe : Nor youth, nor age, nor beauty dost thou spare ; The loftiest head unto thy frown must bow, For none so bold as thee to combat dare, Unless before him Christ his righteous banner bear. V. Fond parent ! cast a look of pity here ! Some of thy treasure in this storehouse lies. Yes ! the sweet babe, once to thy bosom dear, No more can move thee with its plaintive cries. What feelings now must in thy bosom rise ! When all its prattle, and each winning wile, Rush on thy mind, the tears start in thine eyes, As thick as dew-drops on the grassy pile, When strong imagination paints thy baby's smile. 170 VI Here lies a mother, free from mother's care ! Eleven sons have hung upon her breast. Yet only one does here her bosom share. And has his bones with the same covering prest, The tide of time still bears afloat the rest. Without a mother's solace now they roam ; But soon or late death will them all arrest, And to his genVal storehouse bring them home : Tho 1 dearest friends must part, soon all meet in the tomb, VII. Ye who the tender ties of love well know, Weep o'er this grave, nor the warm tear controul f For virtue, youth> and beauty sleep below, That charmed to extasy the wary soul ! No more, alas ! her diamond sparklers roll, Nor rosy blush rests on her pallid cheek ; On that fair breast the lazy worms now loll, Where I have seen the lily shelter seek* But ah ! the wofcful change what mortal man can speak ! 171 VIJI. Ye who each counsel spurn, and grace reject, Whose highest bliss is cheerfully to drain The midnight bowl,- O for a while reflect, Nor let the vapour of your heated brain Subdue your soul, and o'er its reason reign ! Here your coevals sleep the dead among ! Where all their boasting now ? How void, how vain ! No more, alas ! they join your social tlirong, To grasp the friendly hand, or chant the vicious song. IX. O how infatuate those mortal men, Who scorn religion as an idle dream ! Hell surely is, though far beyond our ken, And why should we so lightly of it deem ? How many things incredible may seem, Where our weak judgment cannot comprehend. Man, know thyself, and pluck the blinding beam From thine own eye, nor with thy God contend, But wait with humble patience, and behold the end. 172 X. Thy soul as sentinel on watch still keep, Lest, when its crumbling clay-house down shall fall, It start confounded from a slothful sleep, And shrink with horror from so sudden call. Well may the sight of death such men appall, As have no hope beyond life's narrow shore, But all their happiness on earth install : High title, rank, and wealth they here adore, Death hides them all, robVd of their goods, what have they more ? XL Fear not that death which lays thee in the grave, That house where sweet tranquillity does reign ; But fear that death, which may thy soul bereave Of lasting life, to die in endless pain, Fast bound to torment by eternal chain 1 O awful thought ! Why do we then delay The offered means, by which we may attain That glorious end, life's everlasting day, Where every care and sorrow far shall flee away. 173 XII. Death for man's first transgression is the mead, And dust to dust was doom'd by sure decree. Grim death, though dressed in most terrific weed, Is only keeper of life's prison-key, And at command the weary soul lets free. Why should we grudge to give the grave its own, Since dust to dust alone can well agree, When once the vital spark has from it flown, To other regions yet to living man unknown ? XIII. Dry up those tears, and mourn not for the dead, Nor deem the grave a cold unwelcome bed : Since there our Saviour laid his holy head, All horror from the gloomy chambers fled, And hope's bright ray along death's vale is shed. And only through the grave we can attain That glorious crown for which our Saviour bled ; And in that happy land where he doth reign In sweet felicity, for evermore remain. 174 THE LAST JUDGEMENT. .Now Time's chariot- wheels are broken, Dark the sun sleeps in the sky ! Dismal signs do now betoken, That earth's final end is nigh ! See the mountain-billow soaring, Darkened is the face of day ! Hear the boiling waters roaring, While through fire they dash the spray ! 175 See the trembling mountains crumbling, 'Mongst red rolling clouds of fire ! Worlds of stars, in ruin tumbling, Clash each other, then expire ! Lo ! the skies are burst asunder, Awful shock to human ear ! Tenfold rolling peals of thunder Shake to atoms every sphere ! See the powerful Judge descending, Vengeance dire before him rolls ! Hosts of angels him attending, Awful sight to guilty souls ! Where distinction now and grandeur ? Where, O man ! thy boasted pow'r ? Works of ages, all earth's splendour, Sunk to ruin in an hour ! Direful sentence, how appalling, Hear the mighty Judge proclaim ! See the wicked headlong falling, Wrapt in one eternal flame ! 176 Lo I the saints, bright as the morning, Cloth'd in robes of snowy white ; Golden crowns their heads adorning, Leave this world to endless night ! Sinners now may scoff, and, spurning Each advice, the truth assail ; But, when all creation's burning, What will scoffing then avail ? . 177 ON THE INDEPENDENCE OF SOUTH AMERICA. " Ipsi laetitia voces ad sidera jactant Intonsi monies : ipsae jam carmina rupes, Ipsa sonant arbusta." VIBG. ECL. I. Y E mountains of Columbia, rejoice* Whose lofty summits prop the azure sky ; Ye mighty rivers, lift your awful voice, And all ye echoes to their roar reply : No more your sons by butchery shall die, Nor stain your waters with untimely gore, Nor toil and groan beneath unpitying eye, To fill the coffers of a foreign shore, Rejoice Columbia's sons, for you are slaves no more ! z 178 II Long look'd the Andes o'er the virgin main, If haply sons of science might appear, To chace dull night with all her gloomy train, And long-lorn vallies with instruction cheer ; But empty waves anon came rolling drear : Altho* the cradled ocean sweetly smiTd Beneath the suVry moon-beam sparkling clear, No seaman's song the ling'ring hour beguil'd,. Nor deep-ton'd signal swept along the wat'ry wild. III. At length they spied a vessel's daring prow, That boldly brav'd the elemental war ; They rais'd their heads of everlasting snow, And haiPd the godlike strangers from afar Who bless'd with rapture their propitious star, When empty baubles bought them solid gold ; That cursed ore which makes discordant jar Sweet friendship's notes, and slacks her firmest hold, And many deeds achieves most painful to unfold. 179 IV. Is there a soul that not indignant spurns Thy deeds of horror, O accursed Spain ? Is there a breast that not with pity burns, O'er all the mis'ry of the sanguine plain> The fiend-like torture and unheard-of pain, Fruit of invention steep'd in streams of hell ? Columbia long groan'd beneath her slain, For thick as hail her slaughtered millions fell, And with their guiltless blood made rivers prouder swell. V. Long has the prowler's roar, and shriek of woe, Thy tortured echoes held in gloomy thrall ; But shepherd's pipe, and full-fed oxen's low, Shall now enchant thy twilight's dusky fall. Thy sluggish plains, where loathsome reptiles crawl, With joyful crops of waving grain shall smile, Nor shall the heifer from an empty stall Slow drag the ploughshare thro' thy fruitful soil, Which shall an hundred-fold repay the labourer's toil. 180 VI. Summon, O Amazon ! thy thousand rills , That gurgle down the snow-capt Andes 1 side, With all the streamlets of Columbians hills, And proudly roll thy waters deep and wide ; Thy banks of baneful serpents soon devoid, Shall flourish fair with nature's flowVy store, Where Contemplation oft, at even-tide, Shall list the dashing of the distant oar, Mix'd with the noisy buzz of commerce-crowded shore. VII. No more to senseless deities of stone, Will fated victims fall a horrid prey, Nor Superstition, from her sable throne, With pondVous arm her ebon sceptre sway, Nor death his standard to the winds display, Nor useless sacrifice the altar stain, For Night is vanquished I and victorious Day, With laurell'd front, stalks o'er the joyful plain, Nor hears the grating clank of Slavery's galling chain f 181 ON BEAUTY. J_JIGHTLY flows Anacreon's measure, He beauty paints in rich display, That wine and women give true pleasure, So runs the tenor of his lay. Altho' ev'n these may care destroy, And for a moment pleasure bring ; Alas ! how short-liv'd is that joy, Succeeded by remorse's sting. Chaste wedded love is bliss endearing, And wine right us'd is balm for woe ; Yet none, not virtue's laws revering, Shall e'er such pleasure taste or know. Soon as the snow-white lily's blossom, From fate can guard the tender stem ; Then beauty in the virgin's bosom, Shall there preserve a fairer gem. If nature gave to women beauty, To guide them o'er life's stormy wave ; Too oft, neglectful of the duty, Has sunk that bark it meant to save. 182 LINES WRITTEN AT THE BURYING-GROUND OF MEADOWBANK. JtLow sweet to wander in this solemn grove, Far from the bustle of the busy world ; Here nature in sweet concord woo's the soul To contemplation meet for mortal man. The breeze low whisp'ring stirs the autumn leaves, That wear the sinking sun-beam's sallow hue ; With drowsy hum now teems the living air, Each songster's harp hangs by its side unstrung, Save where the redbreast, perch'd on yonder tree, With his lone warbling lulls the eve to rest, No weeping marble here, to stranger eye, Unfolds the honours of the sleeping dust ; The spruce and yew are all his monument, And the lone owl his requiem nightly sings. 183 THE ORPHAN BOY. _L HE home of my father no more can defend me, The arms of my mother no longer sustain, The wide world's my home, without one to befriend me, To list to my sorrow, or soften my pain ! But what though this life may give honour and grandeur To monarchs and princes, and mis'ry to me, Through the dark vale of death all living must wander, When the clay fabric falls, and the soul struggles free ! A few years once past, or perhaps a few hours, This poor shiv'ring frame shall be sheltered from cold ; Then I'll sleep as softly as he who had towers, When the cold arms of death around me shall fold ! The dark stormy night then unheeded may howl, The green turf will cover me safe from the blast ; No more I'll remember the watch-dog's dread growl, Or grieve for the sorrows that o'er me have past ! \ 184 LENNOX TOWER. As the bent shoulders of some hoary sage, Wrapt in the mantle of declining age, Attracts the eye of all who pass him near. While he implores their tribute with a tear ; Just so methinks old Lennox Castle stands, And from each passenger a tear demands. Reflection's sigh is all the boon it craves, For sons of heroes slumbering in their graves. Its hoary walls, long batter'd by the storm, Present the eye one wild irregular form ; The deep-cut moat o'erhung with hazel boughs, Where sluggish waters wont to find repose ; 185 The hall that echoed to the warrior's tread, Is now the primrose and the daisy's bed ; The strong arch'd roof, that oft responsive rang To song of heroes, or the deep hoarse clang Of brazen trumpet, summoning to war, Or the hoarse grating of the massive bar, Now points its broken fragments to the sky, And through the chinks the winds of heaven sigh. The moping owl among the ruins sits, Now mournful low, now screaming loud, by fits. Old Time stalks by, clad in his garb of gray, And grins a smile to see its strength decay. 2 A 186 WILLIAM AND MARY DARK was the night, the wind was high, When Mary went to meet her dear ; No kindly star shone through the sky, The darksome gloom of night to cheer. The watch-dog howl'd, the night-owl screamed, As Mary trembling took her way, And wild-fire through the dark clouds gleam'd,- She had no other friendly ray. 187 Long, long she wander'd through the plain, Ere she the tufted oak could find, She calPd her love, but all in vain, Her voice sank in the stormy wind. " O William ! William ! Mary calls, Make haste thy Mary to defend, For loud the midnight tempest brawls, And on her head cold rains descend !" The winds grew calm, the clouds withdrew, The moon rose slowly from the sea, And shew'd to Mary's longing view Not distant far th' appointed tree. Arrived, she weary sat her down Beneath the lofty spreading boughs ; Far from the bustle of the town, Thus to the moon she told her woes : " O moon ! how cold thy silv'ry ray Beams in poor Mary's weary eye ; O tell me why my love should stay, If thou behold'st him from the sky. 188 " Say, moon, for thou hast often heard The vows that he to Mary swore, Say if he still will her regard, Or if he loves her now no more ! " O William ! William ! come away, Thy look will warm this rfrivVing frame, O why dost thou so long delay, Thy Mary still remains the same ! " For thee IVe left my father's tower, In some far distant land to roam, IVe left each lovely grove and bower, With thee to seek a distant home ! " Do I deserve such cold return For all the love to thee I gave ? O William ! hear thy Mary mourn, And snatch her from untimely grave I" But hush ! what voice is that I hear, Slow borne upon the hollow gale ? It whispers softly in my ear, " Fair maiden, cease thy midnight wail f 189 " Rise, Mary, rise, thy way pursue Across the moonlight heathy plain, Thy William still is kind and true, Although the oak he could not gain. " Thoult find him by a streamlet's source Well wrapt up in his Highland plaid ; Arise, fair maid ! pursue thy course, Nor think thou needst to be afraid." She wander'd east, she wanderM west, Nor could she e'er her love behold, At last she sat her down to rest, All shiv'ring, weary, wet, and cold ! Her head she rested on a stone, Her snowy robes the chill winds blew, The diamonds on her fingers shone As on the lily drops of dew ! She sat, while in her tender breast Wrought many a dark foreboding fear, And oft her aching heart she prest, And stemmed the bursting briny tear ! 190 When, lo ! she heard her lover's voice, Say, " Mary, what will come of thee ? Once thou alone wast William's choice, But him alive no more though see !" She started up, and look'd around, And there she saw her William stand, His visage marked with ghastly wound, The sword dim gleaming in his hand. She flew to clasp him in her arms, And fondly thought him still alive ; O how her throbbing bosom warms, And trembling limbs to strength revive ! But ah ! as through a cloud of mist, Her lily arms sunk on her bosom, In vain she held them to her breast, For they can never more inclose him ! " Fair maiden, here I cannot stay," The spectre mildly made reply, Through yonder stars I'll wing my way To regions far above the sky ! 191 lt As through yon forest drear I past, That now waves darkly to the view, I heard a villain's signal blast, My sword I from the scabbard drew. " Forth rush'd four men in haughty mood, And sternly ordered me to stand, I answer'd not, but firmly stood, And clench'd my claymore in my hand. " My sword of all their hearts' blood drank, Not one shall hail the dawn of day ; On the cold ground they lifeless sank, Now on their eyes night-ravens prey ! " I faint and weary reach'd yon rill, That back reflects pale Luna's beam ; I stoop'd my parched mouth to fill, But blood soon sullied all the stream. " I heard thee call, and strove to rise, To ease thy bosom of its smart, But death's cold hand seal'd up my eyes, And firmly grasp'd my bleeding heart ! w 192 Fair Mary fainted on the heath, Her languid pulse forgot to play : Thus both their spirits, join'd in death, To brighter regions wing'd their way ! FINIS. JOHN PILLANS, Printer, Edinburgh. YC156442