ON LEAVING A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HE HAD WHEN death's dark stream I ferry o'er- ON READING IN A NEWSPAPER THE DEATH OF JOHN M'LEOD, ESQ., BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR'S. SAD thy tale, thou idle page, And rueful thy alarms- Death tears the brother of her love From Isabella's arms. Sweetly decked with pearly dow Fate oft tears the bosom cords Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sank beneath the western wave; The inconstant blast howled through the darkening air, And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. Lone as I wandered by each cliff and dell, Once the loved haunts of Scotia's royal train ;* The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclosed a stately form, Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I viewed: Her form majestic drooped in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. * Park, Holyrood. + St Anthony's Well. St Anthony's Chapel. Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war, A weeping country joins a widow's tear; The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow: "And I will join a mother's tender cares, Through future times to make his virtue last; That distant years may boast of other Blairs!" She said, and vanished with the sweeping blast. TO MISS FERRIER, ENCLOSING THE FOREGOING ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR. NAE heathen name shall I prefix Frae Pindus or Parnassus; Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks, Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three Made Homer deep their debtor; But, gi'en the body half an e'e, Nine Ferriers wad done better ! Last day my mind was in a bog, A creeping cauld prosaic fog Do what I dought to set her free, My saul lay in the mire; Ye turned a neuk-I saw your e'e- (Edinburgh) beats aaughters eye would tottered cold stupified could soul corner, eye The mournfu' sang I here enclose, In gratitude I send you; And [wish and] pray in rhyme sincere, song good LINES ON STIRLING. HERE Stuarts once in triumph reigned, Who know them best, despise them most.-BURNS. On some one reproving him for writing these lines, Burns added, "Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace, These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; My savage journey, curious, I pursue, Till famed Breadalbane opens to my view. The lawns, wood-fringed in Nature's native taste Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, Here Poesy might wake her heaven-taught lyre, Here to the wrongs of fate half reconciled, Here,heartstruck Grief might heavenward stretch her scan, * THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO My lord, I know your noble ear How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams, The lightly-jumpin' glowerin trouts. If, hapless chance! they linger lang, They're left the whitening stanes ainang, In gasping death to wallow. Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, As Poet Burns came by, That to a bard I should be seen But had I in my glory been, He, kneeling, wad adored me. Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, There, high my boiling torrent smokes, Enjoying large each spring and well, staring long among wept, vexation promised would have cascade As Nature gave them me, I an, although I say't mysel, Worth gaun a mile to see. Would, then, my nobie master please To grant my highest wishes, Ile'll shade iny banks wi' towering trees, Delighted doubly, then, my lord, going |