How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year! And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear! The sun blinks blithe on yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. My cave wad be a lover's bower, That I wad tent and shelter there. O, sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town, If angry fate is sworn my foe, For while life's dearest blood is warm, And she-as fairest is her form! A RED, RED ROSE. O, MY luve's like a red, red rose, As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve ! Tho' it were ten thousand mile.. T * The heroine of this song, Mrs O. (formerly Miss L. J.), died lately at Lisbon. This most accomplished and most lovely woman was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, which will convey some impression of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her husband, as the reader will have observed by our bard's letter to Mr Syme, enclosing this song, in Vol. ii. (1799). A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air; Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care. The winds were laid, the air was still, And the distant-echoing glens reply. The stream, adown its hazelly path, Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. The cauld blue north was streaming forth +By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, * Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. Variation. Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'd. Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, And frae his harp sic strains did flow, As ever met a Briton's ear! He sang wi' joy the former day, I winna ventur't in my rhymes.* nature. * This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery so finely described is taken from The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, or Clouden, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's Tour in Scotland, or Grose's Antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive its being omitted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Libertie, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may be questioned whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation. E. M S |