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There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawy bosom sun-ward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,
Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade,
By love's simplicity betray'd,

And guileless trust,

Till she like thee. all soil'd, is laid
Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd:
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,
By human pride or cunning driv'n

To mis'ry's brink,

Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,
He, ruin'd, sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate.
That fate is thine-no distant date;
Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate

Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight

Shall be thy doom!

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TO RUIN.

ALL hail inexorable lord,

At whose destruction-breathing word
The mightiest empires fall!
Thy cruel woe-delighted train,
The ministers of grief and pain,
A sullen welcome, all!

With stern-resolv'd despairing eye.
I see each aimèd dart;
For one has cut my dearest tie,
And quivers in my heart.

Then low'ring, and pouring,
The storm no more I dread,
Tho' thick'ning and black'ning
Round my devoted head.

And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd,
While life a pleasure can afford,

Oh hear a wretch's pray'r!
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid d;
I court, I beg thy friendly aid,

To close this scene of care!
When shall my soul, in silent peace,
Resign life's joyless day?

My weary heart its throbbings cease,
Cold-mould'ring in the clay?

No fear more, no tear more,
To stain my lifeless face,
Enclasped, and grasped
Within thy cold embrace!

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ON A SCOTCH BARD, GONE TO THE

WEST INDIES.

A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink,
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink,
A' ya wha live an' never think,

Come mourn wi' me!

Our billie's gi'en us a' a jink,

An' owre the sea.

Lament him, a' ye rantin core,
Wha dearly like a random-splore ;
Nae mair he'll join the merry roar,
In social key;

For now he's taen anither shore,

An' owre the sea!

The bonnie lasses weel may wiss him,
And in their dear petitions place him;
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him,
Wi' tearfu' e'e;

For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him
That's owre the sea!

O Fortune, they hae room to grumble!
Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle,
Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble,
"Twad been nae plea;

But he was gleg as ony wumble,

That's owre the sea!

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear,
An' stain them wi' the saut saut tear:
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear,
In flinders flee;

He was her Laureat mony a year,

That's owre the sea!

ΙΟ

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On a Scotch Gard, gone to the West Indies. 117

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west
Lang mustering up a bitter blast;
A jillet brak his heart at last-

Ill may she be!

So took a berth afore the mast,
An' owre the sea.

To tremble under Fortune's cummock
On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock,
Wi' his proud independent stomach,
Could ill agree;

So row'd his hurdies in a hammock,
An' owre the sea.

He ne'er was gi'en to great misguidin',
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in;
Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin',

He dealt it free:

The Muse was a' that he took pride in,
That's owre the sea.

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He wad na wrang'd the vera deil,

That 's owre the sea.

Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie!
Your native soil was right ill-willie ;
But may ye flourish like a lily,

Now bonnilie!

I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie,

Tho' owre the sea!

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ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH.

EDINA! Scotia's darling seat,

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs.
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing lone the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide,
As busy trade his labours plies;
There Architecture's noble pride

Bids elegance and splendour rise;
Here Justice, from her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod;
There Learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy abode.

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind,

With open arms the stranger hail :
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind,
Above the narrow rural vale;
Attentive still to sorrow's wail,

Or modest merit's silent claim:
And never may their sources fail!
And never envy blot their name!

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky,
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy.
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine;
I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own his work indeed divine!

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