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Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times | He sang wi' joy the former day,

are fled;
[bred-
Now, well-bred men-and you are all well |
Most justly think (and we are much the
gainers)
[ners. (269)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor man-

For Right the third, our last, our best, our
dearest,
[nearest,
That right to fluttering female hearts the
Which even the Rights of Kings in low
prostration

[tion! Most humbly own-'tis dear, dear admiraIn that blest sphere alone we live and move: There taste that life of life-immortal love. Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs,

'Gains't such an host what flinty savage
dares ?-
[charms,
When awful Beauty joins with all her
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?
But truce with kings and truce with consti-
tutions,

With bloody armaments and revolutions,
Let majesty your first attention summon,
Ah! ca ira! THE MAJESTY OF WOMAN.

A Vision.

As I stood by yon roofless tower (270),
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air,
Where th' owlet mourns in her ivy bower,
And tells the midnight moon her care;
The winds were laid, the air was still,

The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,

To the distant-echoing glens reply. The stream, adown its hazelly path,

Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's, Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,

Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din;
Athwart the lift they start and shift,

Like fortune's favours, tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.
Had I a statue been o' stane,

His darin' look had daunted me;
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
The sacred motto-"Libertie!"

And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear;
But oh! it was a tale of

woe,

As ever met a Briton's ear.

He weeping wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play-
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.

Liberty-A Fragment.

THEE, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song
To thee I turn with swimming eyes!
Where is that soul of freedom fled ?
Immingled with the mighty dead!

[lies!

|
Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death!
Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep;
Disturb not ye the hero's sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath.
Is this the power in freedom's war,
That wont to bid the battle rage?
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,
Crushing the despot's proudest bearing
Behold e'en grizzly death's majestic state
When Freedom's sacred glance e'en death
is wearing.

To
Ta Mr. Marwell,

OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY,
HEALTH to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief!
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief :
Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf
This natal morn ;

I see thy life is stuff o' prief,

Scarce quite half worn.
This day thou metes'st three score eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second sight, ye ken, is given
To ilka poet)

On thee a tack o' seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow,
May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow,
Nine miles an hour,
Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brimstane shoure-
But for thy friends, and they are mony,
Baith honest men and lasses bonnie,
May couthie fortune, kind and cannie,
In social glee,

Wi' mornings blythe and e'enings funny,
Bless them and thee!

Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,
And then the deil he daurna steer ye:
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye,
For me, shame fa' me,

If near'st my heart I dinna wear ye

While BURNS they ca' me!

On Pastoral Poetry. (271)

HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!
In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd
Frae common sense, or sunk unnerv’d
'Mang heaps o' clavers;
And och owre aft thy joes hae starv'd,
Mid a' thy favours!

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,
While loud, the trump's heroic clang,
And sock or buskin skelp alang

To death or marriage;

Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang
But wi' miscarriage?

In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;
Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;
Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives
Horatian fame;

In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives
Ev'n Sappho's flame.

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?
They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;
Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches

O' heathen tatters:

I pass by hundred, nameless wretches,
That ape their betters.

In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair
Blaw sweetly in its native air

And rural grace ;
And wi' the far fam'd Grecian share
A rival place?

Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan-
There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan!
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan,
A chiel sae clever;
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tantallan,
But thou's for ever!

Thou paints auld nature to the nines,
In thy sweet Caledonian lines;
Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines,
Where Philomel,

While nightly breezes sweep the vines,
Her griefs will tell!

In goweny glens thy burnie strays,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes;
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,
Wi' hawthorns grey,
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays
At close o' day.

Thy rural loves are nature's sel';
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell
O' witchin' love;
That charm that can the strongest quell,
The sternest move.

Sonnet,

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK.

SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough,

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, [part, Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear.

I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon

orient skies!

[blocks in formation]

The Tree of Liberty. (272)
HEARD ye o' the tree o' France,
I watna what's the name o't;
Around it a' the patriots dance,

Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood

Kept France in leading strings, man,

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtue's a' can tell, man ;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It maks him ken himself, man.
If ance the peasant taste a bit

He's greater than a lord, man,
And wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.
This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
To comfort us 'twas sent, man:
To gie the sweetest blush o' health,
And mak us a' content, man.
It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
Maks high and low guid friends, man;
And he wha acts the traitor's part,
It to perdition sends, man.
My blessings aye attend the chiel,

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man, Ard staw'd a branch, spite o' the deil, Frae yon't the western waves, man.

[graphic][merged small][merged small]

Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,

And now she sees wi' pride, man How weel it buds and blossoms there. Its branches spreading wide, man, But vicious folk aye hate to see

The works o' Virtue thrive, man; The courtly vermin's banned the tree, And grat to see it thrive, man, King Loui' thought to cut it down, When it was unco' sma', man;

For this the watchman cracked his crown,
Cut aff his head and a', man.

A wicked crew syne, on a time,
Did tak a solemn aith, man,

It ne'er should flourish to its prime,
I wat they pledged their faith, man;
Awa, they gaed wi' mock parade,

Like beagles hunting game, man,
But soon grew weary o' the trade,

And wished they'd been at hame, man,

For Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca', man;
She sang a song o' liberty,

Which pleased them ane and a', man. By her inspired, the new-born race

Soon drew the avenging steel, man; The hirelings ran-her foes gied chase, And banged the despot weel, man. Let Britain boast her hardy oak,

Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain auce could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man.
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found,
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.
Without this tree, alack this life

Is but a vale o' woe man ;
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,

To feed the titled knave, man;
And a' the comfort we're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,

The warld would live in peace, man; The sword would help to mak a plough, The din o' war wad cease, man. Like brethren in a common cause, We'd on each other smile, man; And equal rights and equal laws

Wad gladden every isle, man. Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat

Sic whalesome, dainty cheer, man; I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet,

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.

Syne let us pray, auld England may Sure plant this far-famed tree, man; And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day That gave us liberty, man.

Ta Genrral Dumourier.

A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. (273) YOU'RE welcome to Despots, Dumourier; You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. How does Dampiere do?

Ay and Bournonville too?

Why did they not come along with you, Dumourier?

I will fight France with you, Dumourier;

I will fight France with you, Dumourier

I will fight France with you;

I will take my chance with you;

By my soul I'll dance a dance with you, Dumourier.

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;

Then let us fight about, Dumourier;

Then let us fight about,

Till freedom's spark is out,

Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt-Dumourier.

Linrs

SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED.

(274)

THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way, The fumes of wine infuriate send (Not moony madness more astray)—

Who but deplores that hapless friend? Mine was th' insensate frenzied part, Ah, why should I such scenes outlive !Scenes so abhorrent to my heart! 'Tis thine to pity and forgive,

Monody

ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. (275) How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd,

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd: [tired, How silent that tongue which the echoes oft How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd!

If sorrow and anguish their exit await,

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd;

How doubly severer. Eliza, thy fate, [lov'd. Thou diedst unwept, as thou lived'st un

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