For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house W. J. Mickle CLV JEAN Of a' the airts the wind can blaw I dearly like the West, There wild woods grow, and rivers row, But day and night my fancy's flight I see her in the dewy flowers, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air: There's not a bonnie flower that springs O blaw ye westlin winds, blaw saft What sighs and vows amang the knowes Hae pass'd atween us twa! How fond to meet, how wae to part That night she gaed awa! The Powers aboon can only ken To whom the heart is seen, That nane can be sae dear to me R. Burns CLVI JOHN ANDERSON John Anderson my jo, John, John Anderson my jo, John, Now we maun totter down, John, R. Burns CLVII THE LAND O' THE LEAL I'm wearing awa', Jean, Like snaw when its thaw, Jean, I'm wearing awa' To the land o' the leal. There's nae sorrow there, Jean, There's neither cauld nor care, Jean, The day is aye fair In the land o' the leal. Ye were aye leal and true, Jean, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal. Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean, To the land o' the leal. In the land o' the leal. Lady Nairn CLVIII ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE Ye distant spires, ye antique towers And ye, that from the stately brow Of Windsor's heights th' expanse below Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among His silver-winding way: Ah happy hills! ah pleasing shade! Where once my careless childhood stray'd, A stranger yet to pain! I feel the gales that from ye blow A momentary bliss bestow, As waving fresh their gladsome wing My weary soul they seem to soothe, To breathe a second spring. Say, Father Thames, for thou hast seen While some on earnest business bent 'Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint To sweeten liberty: Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign And unknown regions dare descry: Gay Hope is theirs by fancy fed, That fly th' approach of morn. Alas! regardless of their doom No sense have they of ills to come Yet see how all around 'em wait The ministers of human fate And black Misfortune's baleful train! These shall the fury Passions tear, And Shame that sculks behind; Ambition this shall tempt to rise, And grinning Infamy. The stings of Falsehood those shall try, Lo, in the Vale of Years beneath The painful family of Death, More hideous than their Queen : This racks the joints, this fires the veins, To each his sufferings: all are men, The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet, ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise ! No more ;-where ignorance is bliss, 'Tis folly to be wise. T. Gray |