LAMENT FOR JAMES, EARL OF GLENCAIRN, 131
"I am a bending, agèd tree,
That long has stood the wind and rain;
But now has come a cruel blast,
And my last hald of earth is gane:
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring,
Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom;
But I maun lie before the storm,
And ithers plant them in my room.
"I've seen sae mony changefu' years,
On earth I am a stranger grown;
I wander in the ways of men,
Alike unknowing and unknown:
Unheard, unpitied, unrelieved,
I bear alane my lade o' care,
For silent, low, on beds of dust,
Lie a' that would my sorrows share.
"And last, (the sum of a' my griefs!)
My noble master lies in clay;
The flower amang our barons bold,
His country's pride, his country's stay:
In weary being now I pine,
For a' the life of life is dead,
And hope has left my agèd ken,
On forward wing for ever fled.
"Awake thy last sad voice, my harp!
The voice of woe and wild despair!
Awake, resound thy latest lay,
Then sleep in silence evermair!
And thou, my last, best, only friend,
That fillest an untimely tomb,
Accept this tribute from the Bard
Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom.
"In poverty's low barren vale,
Thick mists, obscure, involved me round
Though oft I turned the wistful eye,
Nae ray of fame was to be found:
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun
That melts the fogs in limpid air,
The friendless Bard and rustic song,
Became alike thy fostering care.
"Oh, why has worth so short a date?
While villains ripen grey with time!
Must thou, the noble, generous, great,
Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime!
Why did I live to see that day?
A day to me so full of woe!
Oh, had I met the mortal shaft
Which laid my benefactor low!
"The bridegroom may forget the bride
Was made his wedded wife yestreen;
The monarch may forget the crown
That on his head an hour has been;
The mother may forget the child
That smiles sae sweetly on her knee;
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn,
And a' that thou hast done for me!"
SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD, OF WHITEFOORD, BART., WITU
THOU, who thy honour as thy God rever'st,
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly fear'st,
To thee this votive offering I impart,
The tearful tribute of a broken heart.
The friend thou valuedst, I the patron loved;
His worth, his honour, all the world approved;
We'll mourn till we, too, go as he has gone,
And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown.
ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON,
ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS.
WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between:
While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade:
While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his agèd head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty fed:
While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
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.
TO JOHN MAXWELL, OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTHDAY.'
HEALTH to the Maxwells' veteran chief!
Health, aye unsoured by care or grief:
Inspired, I turned Fate's sybil leaf
This natal morn;
I see thy life is stuff o' prief,"
Scarce quite half worn.
This day thou metes threescore eleven,
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven
(The second sight, ye ken is given
On thee a tack o' seven times seven
Will yet bestow it.
If envious buckies view wi' sorrow
Thy lengthened days on this blest morrow,
May Desolation's lang-teethed harrow,
Nine miles an hour,
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah,
In brunstane stoure! 5
But for thy friends, and they are mony,
Baith honest men and lasses bonny,
May couthie Fortune, kind and canny,
In social glee,
Wi' mornings blithe and evenings funny,
Bless them and thee!
' Mr. Maxwell was grandson's grandson to Lord Herries, the faithful and devoted adherent of Mary, Queen of Scots. On his knees Lord Herries entreated the unhappy Queen to prosecute Bothwell for the murder of Darnley. He afterwards fought for her at the battle of Langside.
Fareweel, auld birkie! Lord be near ye,
And then the de'il he daurna steer ye:
Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear
For me, shame fa' me,
If neist my heart I dinna wear ye,
While Burns they ca' me!
SENSIBILITY, how charming,
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell;
But distress with horrors arming,
Thou hast also known too well!
Fairest flower, behold the lily,
Blooming in the sunny ray:
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley,
See it prostrate on the clay.
Hear the woodlark charm the forest,
Telling o'er his little joys:
Hapless bird! a prey the surest,
To each pirate of the skies.
Dearly bought the hidden treasure,
Finer feelings can bestow;
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure,
Thrill the deepest notes of woe.
AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER
WHILE Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things,
The fate of empires and the fall of kings;
While quacks of state must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.
First, in the sexes' intermixed connexion,
One sacred Right of Woman is Protection.
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate,
Sunk on the earth, defaced its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm,
ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE.
Our second Right-but needless here--is Caution;
To keep that right inviolate's the fashion,
Each man of sense has it so full before him,
He'd died before he 'd wrong it 'tis decorum.
There was, indeed, in far less polished days,
A time when rough rude man had naughty ways;
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot,
Nay, even thus, invade a lady's quiet.
Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times are fled;
Now, well-bred men-and you are all well-bred—
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers)
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.1
For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,
That right to fluttering female hearts the nearest,
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration
Most humbly own 'tis dear, dear Admiration!
In that blest sphere alone we live and move;
There taste that life of life-immortal Love.
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs,
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares-
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms,
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?
But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions,
With bloody armaments and revolutions;
Let Majesty your first attention summon,
Ah! ça ira! THE MAJESTY OF WOMAN!
ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER.
SWEET naïveté of feature,
Simple, wild, enchanting elf,
Not to thee, but thanks to Nature,
Thou art acting but thyself
Wert thou awkward, stiff, affected,
Spurning nature, torturing art;
Loves and graces all rejected,
Then indeed thou 'dst act a part.
Ironical allusion to the saturnalia of the Caledonian Hunt.
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