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A FAREWELL SONNET UPON SCOTLAND.

“ No—he refuses to exchange
“ His dark Lochaber's boundless range ;

“ Nor would for Devon's meads forsake,
“ Ben Nevis grey, and Garry's lake,"

Marmion.

Tho'pleasure fires the dullest breast,

As ancient Poets say ;

The care-worn bosom soothes to rest,

And warms the coldest clay.

Can all Arabia's balmy gale,

Or fam'd Potosi's mine;

Can e'en the bright Elysian vale,

Where fabled heroes shine ?

Can all the gilded scenes of Art,

In Folly's thoughtless hour; So renovate and charm the heart,

As Friendship’s manly power ?

And tho' departed now each swain,

To forests far away ;

The hardy sportsman's wreath to gain,

Where rolls the rapid Spey.

Yet lovely nymphs, the dance prepare,

Your Tartan plaid and dress;

For Highland Chiefs will soon repair,

To flatter and caress.

From Birnam wood, and Ossian's hall,

Of olden times,that tell;"* Where Killicrankey's wilds appal,

And gallant Dundee fell.

* Near Dunkeld.

A FAREWELL SONNET UPON SCOTLAND.

165

From distant Staffa's stormy wave,

(Where sacred lore was taught ;)* From heaths surrounding Fingal's cave,

Or Graham nobly fought.

From ancient castles, where secure,

Unhappy Stuart lay;
Whose owners not Peru could lure,

Misfortune to betray.

'Ere then we quit this gay domain,

Or join the busy throng;
To each kind friend, oh! raise the strain,

And cheer the Minstrel's song.

“Whether they grace the splendid scene,

“Where princely grandeur glows; ** Or some sweet cottage on the green,

66 That wood-land shades enclose.

* Christianity (according to tradition) was first introduced into Scotland

from the Hebrides.

Long-long-may they to mirth awake,

“ From ev'ry source that springs ; “ The festive board—the wood-or lake,

“With all that fortune brings.

“If harass’d by corroding care,

“ In Life's uncertain doom,

66

May some kind mortal break the snare, “ And dissipate their gloom.

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May Scotia's hospitable land,

“ With beauty still abound; “ And safe thro' each convulsion stand,

“With ev'ry blessing crown’d.”

SONNET

UPON A SALOON IN ST. JAMES' STREET.

“ There's many a lad I liked is dead,

“ And many a lass grown old;
“ And as the lesson strikes my head,

“My weary heart grows cold.
“But mirth awhile-holds off despair,

Nay-bids a hope remain ;
“ And that is sure a reason fair,

“ To fill our glass again.”

Morrice.

Tho' Time with his sand-glass has wrinkled our brow,

And the furrows too plainly appear ; While a voice heard at midnight, we all must allow;

Cries—the leaf is now yellow and sere.

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