For your poor friend, the Bard, afar A cool spectator purely ! So, when the storm the forest rends, And sober chirps securely. STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace, Once great in martial story? His forbears' virtues all contrasted The very name of Douglas blasted- Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; But he has superadded more, And sunk them in contempt: Follies and crimes have stained the name, VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG. As on the banks o' wandering Nith, Where linties sang and lambkins played. I sat me down upon a craig, And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, When, from the eddying deep below, Uprose the genius of the stream. Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave- 'There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 'When glinting, through the trees, appeared The wee white cot aboon the mill, And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, That slowly curled up the hill. But now the cot is bare and cauld, And scarce a stinted birk is left 'Alas!' said I, 'what ruefu' chance Has twined ye o' your stately trees? Has laid your rocky bosom bare Has stripped the cleeding o' your braes? Was it the bitter eastern blast, That scatters blight in early spring? Or was't the wil'fire scorched their boughs, Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?' 'Nae eastlin blast,' the sprite replied ; 'It blew na here sae fierce and fell, And on my dry and halesome banks Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell: Man! cruel man!' the genius sighed As through the cliffs he sank him down'The worm that gnawed my bonie trees, That reptile wears a ducal crown.' EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. HAIL, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! We never heed, But take it like the unback'd filly, Proud o' her speed. When idly goavan whyles we saunter, Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter We're forced to thole. Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle! Until you on a crummock driddle A gray-hair'd carl. Come wealth, come poortith, late or soon Heaven send your heart-strings ay in tune, And screw your temper-pins aboon A fifth or mair, The melancholious, lazie croon, O' cankrie care. May still your life from day to day But 'allegretto forte' gay Harmonious flow A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey Encore! Bravo! A blessing on the cheery gang But as the clegs o' feeling stang Are wise or fool. My hand-waled curse keep hard in chase The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, Wha count on poortith as disgrace Their tuneless hearts! May fire-side discords jar a base To a' their parts! But come, your hand, my careless brither, About the matter; We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, We've faults and failings-granted clearly, But still, but still, I like them dearly— Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, Wi' girnan spite. But by yon moon !—and that's high swearin'— An' every star within my hearin'! An' by her een wha was a dear ane! I'll ne'er forget; I hope to gie the jads a clearin' In fair play yet. My loss I mourn, but not repent it, C |