Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy-Libertie ! And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear; But oh, it was a tale of woe, As ever met a Briton's ear! He sang wi' joy his former day, He weeping wail'd his latter times; COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH A PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despised and neglected. Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne; My fathers have fallen to right it; Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for K- G join, I most heartily The Q-, and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by my country. But why of this epocha make such a fuss, But loyalty truce! we're on dangerous ground, I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, THERE was once a day, but old Time then was young, That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, From some of your northern deities sprung, (Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain, To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she would: Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, The pride of her kindred the heroine grew: Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore,Whoe'er shall provoke thee, the' encounter shall rue!' With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn, But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land: Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside; She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; The wild Scandinavian boar issu'd forth To wanton in carnage and wallow in gore: O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, No arts could appease them, no arms could repel ; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. The cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life: The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd, the Tweed's silver flood; But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance, Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free, Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; But brave Caledoniona's the hypothenuse; Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always. The following Poem was written to a Gentleman who had sent him a Newspaper, and offered to continue it free of Expense. KIND Sir, I've read your paper through, If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, Or how our merry lads at hame, In Britain's court kept up the game : |