Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, An' no think lang ; O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang! ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURYSHIRE, WITH BAYS. WHILE Virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, While summer with a matron grace While Autumn, benefactor kind, While maniac Winter rages o'er Or sweeping, wild a waste of snows: So long, sweet Poet of the year, Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear, Proclaims that Thomson was her son. A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WALK. A-ROSE-BUD by my early walk, Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, Within the bush, her covert nest She soon shall see her tender brood, So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, When we were first acquent; Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo. John Anderson my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, 1 Or blinding drifts wild-furious flée, Dark'ning the day! O Nature! a' thy shews an' forms Wi' life an' light, Or winter howls, in gusty storms, The lang, dark night! The Muse, nae poet ever fand her, An' no think lang; O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder A heart-felt sang! ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURYSHIRE, WITH BAYS. WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, Or pranks the sod in frolic mood, 226 STUDIES IN POETRY. But hand in hand we'll go, THE POSIE. O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been; But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green, And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller gray, The woodbine I will pu' when the evening star is near, AFTON WATER. FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds through the glen, How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, |