See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,

And dash it in a tyrant's face!

And dare him to his very beard,

And tell him he no more is feared,

No more the despot of Columbia's race!

A tyrant's proudest insults braved,

They shout, a people freed; they hail an empire saved!

'Where is man's godlike form?

Where is that brow erect and bold, That eye that can unmoved behold The wildest rage, the loudest storm, That e'er created fury dared to raise ? Avaunt, thou caitiff! servile, base, That tremblest at a despot's nod, Yet, crouching under the iron rod,

Canst laud the hand that struck the insulting blow! Art thou of man's imperial line?

Dost boast that countenance divine? Each skulking feature answers No! But come, ye sons of Libertie, Columbia's offspring, brave as free!

In danger's hour still flaming in the van,

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Ye know and dare maintain the royalty of Man! 60

Alfred on the starry throne,

Surrounded by the tuneful choir,

The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And roused the freeborn Briton's soul of fire-
No more thy England own!

Dare injured nations form the great design

To make detested tyrants bleed?

Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,

Every pang of honour braving,

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England in thunder calls-"The tyrant's cause is mine!"

'That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice,

And hell thro' all her confines raise the exulting voice! That hour which saw the generous English name Linked with such damnèd deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among,

Thee, famed for martial deed and heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?

Immingled with the mighty dead!

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies!
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 ancient Caledonian form,
Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm ?
The eye which shot immortal hate,

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing?
The arm which, nerved with thundering fate,
Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring?
Dark-quenched as yonder sinking star,

No more that glance lightens afar;

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That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war!'

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE

TO THE MEMORY OF PRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART.

FALSE flatterer, Hope, away!

Nor think to lure us as in days of yore;
We solemnise this sorrowing natal-day
To prove our loyal truth; we can no more;
And owning Heaven's mysterious sway,
Submissive low adore.

Ye honour'd mighty dead!

Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause,
Your king, your country, and her laws!

From great Dundee who smiling victory led,

And fell a martyr in her arms

(What breast of northern ice but warms?)

To bold Balmerino's undying name,

Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flame, Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim.

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Monody on a Eady famed for her Caprice.

Nor unavenged your fate shall be,
It only lags the fatal hour;
Your blood shall with incessant cry
Awake at last th' unsparing power;
As from the cliff, with thundering course,
The snowy ruin smokes along,

With doubling speed and gathering force,

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Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale! So Vengeance' arm ensanguined, strong,

Shall with resistless might assail,

Usurping Brunswick's pride shall lay,

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And Stewart's wrongs, and yours, with tenfold weight repay.

MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER

CAPRICE.

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired,
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd!
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd,
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, Maria, thy fate,

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd.

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you;
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear:
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true,

And flowers let us cull for Maria's cold bier.

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower,
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed;
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower,

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed.

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay;
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre;

There keen Indignation shall dart on his prey,

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire.

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THE EPITAPH.

HERE lies, now a prey to insulting neglect,
What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam :
Want only of wisdom denied her respect,
Want only of goodness denied her esteem.

POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL,

COLLECTOR OF EXCISE, DUMFRIES.

FRIEND of the Poet, tried and leal,
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal;
Alake, alake, the meikle Deil

Wi' a' his witches

Are at it, skelpin'! jig and reel,

In my poor pouches.

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it,
That one pound one, I sairly want it:
If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it,

It would be kind;

And while my heart wi' life-blood dunted,

I'd bear't in mind.

So may the auld year gang out moaning
To see the new come laden, groaning,
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning

To thee and thine;

Domestic peace and comforts crowning

The haill design.

POSTSCRIPT.

Ye've heard this while how I've been lickit,

And by fell death was nearly nickit:
Grim loon! he gat me by the fecket,

And sair me sheuk;

But by guid luck I lap a wicket,

And turn'd a neuk.

ΙΟ

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But by that health, I've got a share o't,
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't,
My heal and weal I'll take a care o't

A tentier way:

Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't,
For ance and aye!

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TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS,

FOR A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

AGAIN the silent wheels of time
Their annual round have driven,

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime,
Are so much nearer Heaven.

No gifts have I from Indian coasts
The infant year to hail;

I send you more than India boasts,
In Edwin's simple tale.

Our sex with guile and faithless love
Is charg'd, perhaps too true;

But may, dear Maid, each lover prove
An Edwin still to you!

IO

LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD,
OF WHITEFORD, BART.

WITH THE LAMENT ON THE DEATH OF THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN.

THOU, who thy honour as thy God reverest,

Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fearest, To thee this votive offering I impart,

The tearful tribute of a broken heart.