Rude the ruthless storm may sweep, Howling round our mountains steep, But mindful of our poet's worth, We hail the honour'd day that gave him Birth. Come, ye Vot'ries of the Lyre, Raise the song in Scotia's praise, mark of satisfaction and applause. It appeared in the Scots Magazine the next month; but by some unaccountable neglect it was omitted in the edition of his works, published after his lamented death-We certainly think it no way inferior to his other productions on the same subject, and flatter ourselves that the majority of our readers will be of the same opinion. Indeed it affords a striking proof of the rich stores of his mind, when he could thus continue a subject he had so completely exhausted on former oc. casions. We are informed by a particular friend of his, that on being strongly solicited to write an Ode for the occasion, it was with considerable reluctance he complied with their request, affirming, that it was tasking himself something like the Poet Laureat to write an annual Birth Day Ode, and that he had nothing whatever to say on the subject; he was prevailed on, however, to make the attempt, and the present ode we are persuaded will not sully his fame, or tarnish one leaf of the IVY CHAPLET that adorns his honoured brow! Since we have introduced our Bard to the notice of our readers, we beg leave to state that it was not our original intention to publish any of Tan nahill's compositions, which are inserted in the Glasgow Encyclopedia Sing her thousand siller streams, Dear Scotia, tho' thy clime be cauld, Thou'rt foremost in the battle broil, To guide the plough or wield the spear; Bids them sheath the sated sword, of Songs; but as the present publication will be embellished with his portrait, it would be ridiculous not to insert a few of his pieces. We, therefore, intend to publish what we consider the happiest of his lyrical effusions, accompanied with short notices regarding them, extacted from original documents in the possession of some of his most intimate acquaintances, which, we are happy to state, through their kindness we shall be enabled to furnish; this will afford his admirers some idea of the manner and style of his Epistolary Writings, and which, we trust, will not be alte gether unacceptable. See them in their native vales, Jocund as the summer gales, Cheering labour all the day, Dear Scotia, tho' thy nights be drear, While darkness shrouds their black intent. Without a care unless for thee, Wha sang sae sweet and dee't sae soon, Thy Wat ye wha's in yonder town,” Thy "Banks and braes o' bonnie doon"; Are a' gane o'er sae sweetly tun'd, That e'en the storm, pleased with the sound Fa's lown and sings with eerie slight, "O let me in this ae, ae night.” Alas! our best, our dearest Bard, How poor, how great was his reward! Unaided he has fixt his name, Immortal in the rolls of fame ; Yet who can hear without a tear, What sorrows wrung his manly breast, To see his little helpless, filial band, Imploring succour from a father's hand And there no succour near? Himself the while with sick'ning woes opprest, Fast hast'ning on to where the weary rest: For this let Scotia's bitter tears atone, She reck'd not half his worth till he was gone. CLIV. POOR NEGRO WOMAN, ULALEE My cruel love to danger go, No think of pain he give to me; Too soon me fear like grief to know, As broke the heart of Ulalee! Poor negro woman, Ulalee. Poor soul, to see her hang her head Poor negro woman, Ulalee! My love be kill'd! how sweet he smil'd! That he have left poor Ulalee. Poor negro woman, Ulalee! |