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For your poor friend, the Bard, afar
He only hears and sees the war,

A cool spectator purely !

So, when the storm the forest rends,
The robin in the hedge descends,

And sober chirps securely.

STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF
QUEENSBERRY.

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace,
Discarded remnant of a race

Once great in martial story?

His forbears' virtues all contrasted

The very name of Douglas blasted-
His that inverted glory.

Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore;

But he has superadded more,

And sunk them in contempt:

Follies and crimes have stained the name,
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim,
From aught that's good exempt

VERSES

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG.

As on the banks o' wandering Nith,
Ae smiling simmer-morn I strayed,
And traced its bonie howes and haughs,

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,
And troubled, like his wintry wave,
And deep, as sughs the boding wind

Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave-
'And came ye here, my son,' he cried,
'To wander in my birken shade?
To muse some favourite Scottish theme,
Or sing some favourite Scottish maid.

'There was a time, it's nae lang syne,
Ye might hae seen me in my pride,
When a' my banks sae bravely saw
Their woody pictures in my tide;
When hanging beech and spreading elm
Shaded my stream sae clear and cool
And stately oaks their twisted arms
Threw broad and dark across the pool;

'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,
Its branchy shelter's lost and gane,

And scarce a stinted birk is left
To shiver in the blast its lane.'

'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 !
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly
To every fiddling, rhyming billie,

We never heed,

But take it like the unback'd filly,

Proud o' her speed.

When idly goavan whyles we saunter,
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter,
Some black bog-hole,

Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter

We're forced to thole.

Hale be your heart! Hale be your fiddle!
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle,
To cheer you through the weary widdle
O' this wild warl',

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
Nae 'lente largo' in the play,

But 'allegretto forte' gay

Harmonious flow

A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey

Encore! Bravo!

A blessing on the cheery gang
Wha dearly like a jig or sang,
An' never think o' right an' wrang
By square an' rule,

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,
I' th' ither warl' if there's anither,
An' that there is I've little swither

About the matter;

We cheek for chow shall jog thegither,
I'se ne'er bid better.

We've faults and failings-granted clearly,
We're frail backsliding mortals merely,
Eve's bonie squad priests wyte them sheerly
For our grand fa';

But still, but still, I like them dearly—
God bless them a'!

Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers,
When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers,
The witching cursed delicious blinkers
Hae put me hyte,

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,
I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it,
Ance to the Indies I were wonted,
Some cantraip hour,
By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted,
Then, vive l'amour!

C

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