But oh! it was a tale of wu,
As ever met a Briton's ear.
He sang wi' joy the former day,
He weeping wailed his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play-
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.
SONNET ON THE DEATH OF GLEN RIDDEL.
No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more;
Nor pour your descant grating on my soul:
Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole-
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar.
How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes?
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend!
How can I to the tuneful strain attend?
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddol lies.
Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of wo,
And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier :
The Man of Worth, and hath not left his peer,
Is in his narrow house, for ever darkly low.
Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet;
Me, memory of my loss will only meet.
THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead,
Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death,
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep,
Disturb ye not the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath.
Is this the power in freedom's war,
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Braved usurpation's boldest daring;
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
Crushed the despot's proudest bearing:
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star,
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age
VERSES TO MISS GRAHAM OF FINTRY.
HERE, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives,
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers joined,
Accept the gift, though humble he who gives;
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind.
So may no ruffian feeling in thy breast,
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among;
But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest,
Or Love ecstatic wake his seraph song:
Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears,
As modest Want the tale of wo reveals;
While conscious Virtue all the strain endears,
And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals.
THE TREE OF LIBERTY.
HEARD ye o' the tree o' France,
I watna what's the name o't;
Around it a' the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's WICKED brood
Kept France in leading-strings, man.
Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a' can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It maks him ken himsel, man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
Ile's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.
This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
To comfort us 'twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak us a' content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Maks high and low gude friends, mau;
And he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to DESTRUCTION sends, man.
My blessings aye attend the HAN',
Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man.
And staw a branch, FRAE THAT FAR LAN',
Frae yont the western waves, man.
Fair Virtue watered it wi' care,
And now she sees wi' pride, man, How weel it buds and blossoms there, Its branches spreading wide, man.
A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime,
I wat they pledged their faith, man.
Awa they gaed wi' mock parade,
Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade,
And wished they'd been at hame, man.
For Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca', man;
She sang a sang o' liberty,
Which pleased them ane and a', man.
By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran-her foes gied chase,
And banged the despot weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man.
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found
"Twixt London and the Tweed, man.
Without this tree, alake this life
Is but a vale o' wo, man;
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man;
And a' the comfort we're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.
Wi' plenty o' sic trees, trow,
The warld would live in peace, man; The sword would help to mak a plough,
The din o' war wad cease, man.
Like brethren in a common cause,
We'd on each other smile, man;
And equal rights and equal laws
Wad gladden every isle, man
Wae worth the loon wha wadna ezt
Sic halesome dainty cheer, man;
I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet,
To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.
Syne let us pray, auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blithe we'll sing, and hail the day
That gave us liberty, man.
woe, fellow, wouldn't wholesome give, shoes, off
TO DR MAXWELL,
ON MISS JESSIE STAIG'S RECOVERY.
MAXWELL, if merit here you crave,
That merit I deny :
You save fair Jessy from the grave !--
An angel could not die!
TIS Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend,
Nor thou the gift refuse,
Nor with unwilling ear attend
The moralising Muse.
Since thou, in all thy youth and charms,
Must bid the world adieu,
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms)
To join the friendly few:
Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast,
Chill came the tempest's lower;
(And ne'er miisfortune's eastern blast
Did nip a fairer flower :)
Since life's gay scenes must charm no more
Still much is left behind;
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store--
The comforts of the mind!
Thine is the self-approving glow,
On conscious honour's part;
And, dearest gift of Heaven below,
Thine friendship's truest heart.
The joys refined of sense and taste,
With every Muse to rove:
And doubly were the Poet blest,
These joys could he improve.
TOAST FOR THE 12TH OF APRIL.
INSTEAD of a song, boys, I'll give you a toast-
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!
That we lost, did I say? nay, IN TRUTH, that we found,
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round.
The next in succession, I'll give you the King
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing;
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution,
As built on the base of the great Revolution;
And longer with politics not to be crammed,
MAY Anarchy PERISH-be Tyrants condemned;
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial
FOR AN ALTAR TO INDEPENDENCE, AT KERROUGHTREE, THE SEAT OF MR HERON.
THOU of an independent mind,
With soul resolved, with soul resigned;
Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave
Who wilt not be, nor have a slave;
Virtue alone who dost revere,
Thy own reproach alone dost fear,
Approach this shrine, and worship here.
ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG.
As on the banks o' wandering Nith,
Ae smiling simmer-morn I strayed,
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs,
Where linties sang and lambkins played,
I sat me down upon a craig,
And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
When, from the eddying deep below,
Uprose the Genius of the stream.
Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,
And troubled, like his wintry wave,
And deep, as sughs the boding wind
Amang his caves, the sigh he gave-
"And came you hear, my son," he cried,
"To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid.
There was a time, it's nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,
When a my banks sae bravely saw,
Their woody pictures in my tide;
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool;
And stately oaks their twisted arms
Threw broad and dark across the pool;
"When, glinting through the trees, appeared
The wee white cot aboon the mill,
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek,
That slowly curled up the hill.
But now the cot is bare and cauld
Its branchy shelter's lost and gane,
And scarce a stunted birk is left
To shiver in the blast its lane."
"Alas!" said I, what ruefu' chance
Has twined ye o' your stately trees!
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