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Did he smile his work to see?
Did He, who made the Lamb, make thee?

Tiger! Tiger! burning bright,
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

TO THE MUSES.

WHETHER on Ida's shady brow

Or in the chambers of the East, The chambers of the sun, which now From ancient melodies have ceased; Whether in Heaven ye wander fair,

Or the green corners of the earth, Or the blue regions of the air, Where the melodious winds have birth,

Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,

Beneath the bosom of the sea, Wandering in many a coral grove, Fair Nine, forsaking Poetry,

How have you left the ancient lore
That bards of old engaged in you!
The languid strings do scarcely move,
The sound is forced, the notes are few.

I hear below the water roar,
The mill wi' clacking din,
And Lucky scolding frae the door,
To ca' the bairnies in.

O, no! sad and slow,

These are nae sounds for me;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It creeps sae drearily.

I coft yestreen, frae chapman Tam,
A snood o' bonnie blue,

And promised, when our trysting cam',
To tie it round her brow.

O, no! sad and slow,

The mark it winna' pass;
The shadow o' that dreary bush
Is tethered on the grass.

O now I see her on the way!

She's past the witch's knowe;

She's climbing up the brownies brae; My heart is in a lowe,

O, no! 't is not so,

'Tis glamrie I hae seen;

The shadow o' that hawthorn bush
Will move nae mair till e'en.

My book o' grace I'll try to read,
Though conned wi' little skill;
When Collie barks I'll raise my head,

And find her on the hill.

O, no! sad and slow,

The time will ne'er be gane;
The shadow o' our trysting bush
Is fixed like ony stane.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

[1762-1831.]

THE GOWAN GLITTERS ON THE
SWARD.

THE gowan glitters on the sward,
The lav'rock's in the sky,
And Collie on my plaid keeps ward,
And time is passing by.

O, no! sad and slow,

And lengthened on the ground;
The shadow of our trysting bush
It wears so slowly round.

My sheep-bells tinkle frae the west,
My lambs are bleating near;
But still the sound that I love best,
Alack! I canna hear.

O, no! sad and slow,

The shadow lingers still;
And like a lanely ghaist I stand,
And croon upon the hill.

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

[1766-1845.]

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,
Like snaw in a thaw, Jean,
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.
There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day is ever fair

In the Land o' the Leal.

You've been leal and true, Jean,
Your task is ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the Land o' the Leal.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

Then dry that tearfu' ee, Jean; My soul langs to be free, Jean; And angels wait on me

To the Land o' the Leal.

Our bonnie bairn 's there, Jean, She was baith gude and fair, Jean, And we grudged her sair

To the Land o' the Leal!

But sorrow's self wears past, Jean,
And joy's a comin' fast, Jean,
The joy that's aye to last,

In the Land of the Leal.

A' our friends are gane, Jean; We've lang been left alane, Jean; But we'll a' meet again

In the Land o' the Leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean! This world's care is vain, Jean! We'll meet, and aye be fain

In the Land o' the Leal.

ROBERT BLOOMFIELD.

[1766-1823.]

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

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But rose at once, and bursted into tears; Then, like a fool, confused, sat down again,

And thought upon the past with shame and pain;

I raved at war and all its horrid cost, And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost.

On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mused,

And cursed the murdering weapons I had used.

Two shadows then I saw, two voices

heard,

One bespoke age, and one a child's appeared.

In stepped my father with convulsive start,

And in an instant clasped me to his heart. Close by him stood a little blue-eyed maid;

And stooping to the child, the old man said,

"Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again;

This is your uncle Charles, come home from Spain."

The child approached, and with her fingers light

Stroked my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.

But why thus spin my tale, — thus tedious be?

Happy old soldier! what's the world to

me?

JANE ELLIOTT.

[1781 - 1849.]

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

I'VE heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,

Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day; But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede

away.

At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,

Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae; Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,

Ilk ane lifts her leglin and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,

Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;

At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede

away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming

'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;

But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie

The Flowers of the Forest are weded

away.

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!

The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost,

The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewemilking;

Women and bairns are heartless and wae;

Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning

The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

[1774-1810.]

THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE
BURN.

THE midges dance aboon the burn;
The dews begin to fa';

The paitricks down the rushy holm
Set up their e'ening ca'.
Now loud and clear the black bird's sang
Rings through the briery shaw,
While flitting gay the swallows play
Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay; The redbreast pours his sweetest strains, To charm the ling'ring day; While weary yaldrins seem to wail Their little nestlings torn, The merry wren, frae den to den,

Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The honeysuckle and the birk
The foxglove shuts its bell;

Let others crowd the giddy court
Spread fragrance through the dell.

Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that Nature yields
Are dearer far to me.

THE BRAES O' BALQUHITHER. LET us go, lassie, go,

To the braes o' Balquhither,
Where the blac-berries grow
'Mang the bonnie Highland heather;
Where the deer and the roe,

Lightly bounding together,
Sport the lang summer day
On the braes o' Balquhither.

I will twine thee a bower

By the clear siller fountain,
And I'll cover it o'er

Wi' the flowers of the mountain;
I will range through the wilds,
And the deep glens sae drearie,
And return wi' the spoils

To the bower o' my dearie.

When the rude wintry win'

Idly raves round our dwelling,

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