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To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck fell, Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;
The youngling cottagers retire to rest :
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
That he who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,
Would in the way his wisdom sees the best,
For them and for their little ones provide;
Butchiefly in their hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur
springs, He wales a portion with judicious care ;
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad: And "let us worship God!” he says, with solemn air. Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,
“ An honest man's the noblest work of God:" They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
And certes, in fair virtue's heav’nly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind:
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human-kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!
The tickled ears no heartfelt raptures raise ; For whom my warmest wish to hearen is sent!
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet con-
And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile!
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,
A virtuous populace may rise the while,
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'disle.
O thou! who pour'd the patriotic tide
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart;
Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art, How he, who bore in heav'n the second name,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert:
But still the patriot and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF
GLENCAIRN. ven's command.
The wind blew hollow frae the hills,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays: Look'd on the fading yellow woods
That thus they all shall meet in future days: Beneath a craigy steep, a bard,
Laden with years and meikle pain, No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,
In loud lament bewail'd his lord,
Whom death had all untimely ta'en.
He lean'd him to an ancient aik,
Whose trunk was mould'ring down with years; Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
His locks were bleached white wi' time, In all the pomp of method, and of art,
His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears! When men display to congregations wide,
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart!
And as he tun'd his doleful sang, The Pow'r, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
To echo bore the notes alang. But haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; “ Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing, And in his book of life the inmates poor enrol. The reliques of the vernal quire!
Ye woods that shed on a' the winds
The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou hast done for me!"
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
The castle o' Montgomery,
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
Your waters never drumlie!
There simmer first unfald her robes,
And there the langest tarry;
For there I took the last fareweel
O' my sweet Highland Mary.
How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk,
How rich the hawthorn's blossom ;
As underneath their fragrant shade
I clasp'd her to my bosom!
The golden hours on angel wings
Flew o'er me and my dearie;
For dear to nie, as light and life,
Was my sweet Highland Mary.
Wi'mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
Our parting was su' tender;
And, pledging art to meet again,
We tore oursels asunder;
But oh! fell death's untimely frost,
That nipt my flower sae early !
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
That wraps my Highland Mary!
O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
And clos'd, for ay, the sparkling glance,
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust,
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
Shall live my Highland Mary.
Thick mists, obscure, involved me round;
TO A MOUSE,
ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST WITH THE
PLOUGA, NOVEMBER, 1785.
Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, “O! why has worth so short a date,
Wi' bickerin brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdoring pattle!
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which maks thee startle
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, “ The bridegroom may forget the bride
I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then ? poor beastie, thou manu live!
4 ጊ 4 Z
A daimen icker in a thrave
The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yieki, 's a sma request:
High shelt'ring woods and was maun shield, I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
But thou, beneath the random bield, And never miss't!
O'clod or stane,
Adorns the histie stibble-field,
There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread, An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head
lo humble guise ;
But now the share uptears thy bed, Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
And low thou lies!
Such is the fate of artless Maid,
Sweet foweret of the rural shade!
By love's simplicity betray'd,
And guileless trust,
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid That wee bit lieap o' leaves an' stibble,
Low i' the dust.
Such is the fate of simple Bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
Unskilful he to note the card
of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
And whelm him o'er! In proving foresight may be vain : The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, Gang aft a-gley,
Who long with wants and woes has strive, An' lea'e us nought but grief and pain,
By human pride or cunning driv'n, For promis’d joy.
To mis'ry's brink,
Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay bnt Heav'n, Still thou art blest, compard wi' me! The present only toucheth thee:
Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, But, och! I backward cast my e'e
That fate is thine no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,
Full on thy bloom, I guess an' fear.
Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,
Shall be thy doom! TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY,
He, ruin'd, siok!
Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,
Thy slender stem;
Thou bonie gem.
Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet, The bonie lark, companion meet! Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet,
Wi' spreckled breast,
The purpling east.
Amid the storm,
Thy tender form.
When chapman billies leave the street,
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
Ayr wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie tasses.)
O Tam! hads't thou but been sae wise,
Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never listed leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ;
Whyles holding fast his guid blue bonnet';
Whyles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet; That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Whyles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor’d;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck bane;
And through the whins, and by the cairn,
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.
Before him Doon pours all his floods ;
The doubling storm roars through the woods ;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll;
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze ;
Through ilka bore the beams were glancing :
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi’usquabae, we'll face the Devil !
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's nodille,
Fair play, he car'd na Deil's a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, vow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys and reels,
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screwed the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof an' rafters a' did dirl.
Coffins stood round like open presses,
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantrip slight,
Each in its cauld hand held a light,
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the baly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted ;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The grey hairs yet stack to the hef:;
A thief, new cutted frae a rape,
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Three lawyers' tongues turn'd inside out,
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' lies seam'd like a beggar's clout,
Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. And priests' hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy farin! Lay, stinking, vile, in neuk.
In hell they'll roast thee like a herria! Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious :
And win the key-stane of the brig; The piper loud and louder blew;
There at them thou thy tail may toss, The dancers quick and quicker flew ;
A running stream they dare na cross. They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleckit, But ere the key-stane she could make, Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
The fient a tail she had to shake! And coost her duddies to the wark,
For Nannie, far before the rest, And linket at it in her sark!
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans, And few at Tam wi' furious ettle; A' plump and strapping in their teens ;
But little wist she Maggie's mettleTheir sarks, instead o creeshie flannen,
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!
But left behind her ain grey tail: Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
The carlin claught her by the rump, That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. I wad hae gi'en them aff my hurdies,
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!
Ilk man and mother's son take heed: But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Lowping an' Ainging on a crummock,
Or Cutty-sarks run in your mind, I wonder didna turn thy stomach.
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie,
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
As I stood by yon roofless tower, And perish'd monie a bonie boat,
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, And shook baith meikle corn and beer,
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bowa, And kept the country-side in fear),
And tells the midnight moon her care: Her cutty-sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn,
The winds were laid, the air was still, In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
The stars they shot alang the sky; It was her best, and she was vauntie.
The fox was howling on the hill, little kenn'd thy reverend grannie,
And the distant-echoing glens reply. That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and la's. Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r! To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
The cauld blue north was streaming forth (A souple jad she was and strang)
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ; And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd,
Athort the list they start and shift,
Like fortune's favours tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd my eyes,
And, by the moonbeam, shook, to set Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, And roars out,“ Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. And in an instant a' was dark:
Had I a statue been o'stane, And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
His darin look had daunted me; When out the hellish legion sallied,
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; As eager runs the market-crowd,
But oh it was a tale of woe, When, “ Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; As ever met a Briton's ear!