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Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; Then homeward all take off their several Or other holy seers that tune the sacred

way; lyre.

The youngling cottagers retire to rest :

The parent-pair their secret homage pay: Perhaps the Christian volume is the

And proffer up to Heaven the warm theme,

request, How guiltless blood for guilty man was That He, who stills the raven's clamorous shed;

nest, How He, who bore in Heaven the And decks the lily fair in flowery pride, second name,

Would, in the way His wisdom sees the Had not on earth whereon to lay His

best, head:

For them, and for their little ones proHow His first followers and servants

vide; sped;

But chiefly, in their hearts with grace The precepts sage they wrote to many a divine preside.

land: How he, who lone in Patmos banished, From scenes like these old Scotia's Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;

grandeur springs, And heard great Babylon's doom pro- That makes her loved at home, revered nounced by Heaven's command.

abroad :

Princes and lords are but the breath of Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eter- kings; nal King,

“ An honest man's the noblest work of The saint, the father, and the husband

God: prays :

And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly Hope "springs exulting on triumphant


The cottage leaves the palace far behind; That thus they all shall meet in future What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous days :

load, There ever bask in uncreated rays, Disguising oft the wretch of human No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,

kind, Together hymning their Creator's praise, Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness In such society, yet still more dear;

refined! While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil !

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven Compared with this, how poor Religion's

is sent! pride,

Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil In all the pomp of method, and of art,

Be blest with health, and peace, and When men display to congregations

sweet content ! wide

And, oh, may Heaven their simple lives Devotion's every grace, except the heart !

prevent The Power, incensed, the pageant will

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! desert,

Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be The pompous strain, the sacerdotal

rent, stole;

A virtuous populace may rise the while, But haply, in some cottage far apart,

And stand a wall of fire around their May hear, well pleased, the language of

much-loved Isle. the soul; And in His book of life the inmates

O Thou! who poured the patriotic tide

That streamed thro’ Wallace's undaunted 1 Pope's Windsor Forest. — R. B.


wing,'' 1

poor enrol.

Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, FAREWELL TO NANCY.
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, AE fond kiss, and then we sever!
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and re- Ae farewell, alas, for ever!

Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge O never, never Scotia's realm desert;

thee! But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. In bright succession raise, her ornament Who shall say that fortune grieves him, and guard!

While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me;
Dark despair around benights me.

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Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn,

Aloft on dewy wing;
The merle, in his noontide bow'r,

Makes woodland echoes ring;
The mavis mild wi' many a note,

Sings drowsy day to rest :

1 creeps.

2 heart-pangs.

In love and freedom they rejoice, Alas! it's no thy neebor sweet,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

The bonnie Lark, companion meet!

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! Now blooms the lily by the bank,

Wi' spreckl'd breast, The primrose down the brae;

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet The hawthorn's budding in the glen,

The purpling east. And milk-white is the slae; The meanest hind in fair Scotland

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north May rove their sweets amang; Upon thy early, humble birth; But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth Maun lie in prison strang.

Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth I was the Queen o' bonnie France,

Thy tender form. Where happy I hae been; Fu’ lightly rase I in the morn,

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, As blythe lay down at e’en: And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,

High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun

shield, And monie a traitor there; Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

But thou, beneath the random bield 1

O'clod, or stane, And never ending care.

Adorns the histie 2 stibble-field,

Unseen, alane.
My son! my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine;
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, There, in thy scanty mantle clad,
That ne'er wad blink on mine!

Thy snawy bosom sunward spread,
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise; Or turn their hearts to thee: And where thou meet'st thy mother's

But now the share uptears thy bed,

And low thou lies! friend Remember him for me!

Such is the fate of artless Maid, Oh! soon, to me, may summer suns Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade! Nae mair light up the morn!

By love's simplicity betray'd, Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds

And guileless trust, Wave o'er the yellow corn!

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid And in the narrow house o' death

Low i' the dust. Let winter round me rave; And the next flowers that deck the Such is the fate of simple Bard, spring

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! Bloom on my peaceful grave !

Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,
Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er!
ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, IN Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n,
APRIL, 1786.

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, WEE, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r,

By human pride or cunning driv'n Thou's met me in an evil hour;

To mis'ry's brink, For I maun crush amang the stoure Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n, Thy slender stem:

He, ruin'd, sink! To spare thee now is past my pow'r, Thou bonnie gem.

1 shelter.

2 dry.

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld !

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, That fate is thine — no distant date; Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate,

Full on thy bloom, Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight,

Shall be thy doom!

But, mousie, thou art no thy lane,?
In proving foresight may be vain :
The best laid schemes o mice an' men

Gang aft a-gley, 3
An' leave us nought but grief and pain,

For promised joy.




Still thou art blest, compared wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee;
But, och! I backward cast my e'e

On prospects drear !
An' forward, tho’ I canna see,

I guess an' fear.


Is there a whim-inspired fool,
Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,
Owre blate to seek, owre prood to snool,

Let him draw near; And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

WEE, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle !1
I wad be laith? to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murdering pattle ! 3
I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,

Which makes thee startle At me, thy poor earth-born companion,

An' fellow mortal! I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; What then? poor beastie,thou maun live! A daimen-icker 4 in a thrave 5

'S a sma' request : I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

And never miss't.
Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin !
Its silly wa's the winds are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O’ foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell7 an' keen !
Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ waste,
An’ weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell, Till crash! the cruel coulter pass'd

Out ihru' thy cell.
That wee bit heap o' leaves an’stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble !
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,
2 loth.

Is there a Bard of rustic song,
Who, noteless, steals the crowds among
That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!
But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man whose judgment clear, Can others teach the course to steer, Yet runs, himself, life's mad career

Wild as the wave; Here pause — and, thro’the starting tear

Survey this grave.

The poor Inhabitant below
Was quick to learn, and wise to know,
And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;
But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

3 plough staff. 4 ear of corn. twenty-four sheaves. 6 the rest.

1 hurry:

7 biting.

1 hoar frost.

2 thyself aione.

3 wrong.

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My Mary, dear departed shade!

Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his


Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the

May bear the gree, and a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,

It's coming yet, for a' that;
That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brother be for a' that.

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