TO A YOUNG LADY (MISS JESSIE LEWARS, DUMFRIES), WITH BOOK WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED TO HER. THINE be the volumes, Jessy fair, SONNET, WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, See agèd Winter, 'mid his surly reign, So in lone Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content, with light unanxious heart, I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! What wealth could never give nor take away! Yet come, thou child of poverty and care! The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with thee I'll share. SONNET ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ., OF GLENRIDDEL. No more, ye warblers of the wood, no more! Nor pour your descant, grating, on my soul: Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole- How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddel lies! Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe! Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet, ON PASTORAL POETRY. HAIL, Poesie! thou nymph reserved! 'Mang heaps o' clavers !! And och! o'er aft thy joes 2 ha'e starved, Mid a' thy favours! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, To death or marriage; Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang, In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; Horatian fame ; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 1 Nonsense. 2 Lovers. 3 Dwarf. But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, That ape their betters. Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan! The teeth o' Time may gnaw Tantallan, Thou paints auld Nature to the nines," Nae gowden stream through myrtles twines, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 6 Her griefs will tell! In gowany glens thy burnie strays, Thy rural loves are Nature's sel'; O' witchin' love, That charm that can the strongest quell, 1 Small. 2 Allan Ramsay, author of the "Gentle Shepherd." A partition-wall in a cottage, or a seat of turf outside it. 5 Exactly. 6 Daisied. 3 Hide. 7 Bursts. POEM ON LIFE. ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796. My honoured Colonel, deep I feel The steep Parnassus, Surrounded thus by bolus pill And potion glasses. Oh, what a canty warld were it, Would pain and care, and sickness spare it; (And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; Dame Life, though fiction out may trick her, I've found her still, Aye wavering, like the willow-wicker, Then that cursed carmagnole, auld Satan, Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on, Ah, Nick! ah, Nick! it is na fair, Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare Poor man, the fly, aft bizzes by, And aft as chance he comes thee nigh, Already in thy fancy's eye, Thy sicker treasure. Soon heels o'er gowdie! in he gangs, Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs As dangling in the wind he hangs But lest you think I am uncivil, To plague you with this draunting drivel, I quat my pen: The Lord preserve us frae the devil! 3 A VISION.1 As I stood by yon roofless tower, The winds were laid, the air was still, The cauld blue north was streaming forth By heedless chance I turned mine eyes, Had I a statue been o' stane, His darin' look had daunted me; The sacred posie-Libertie! This is the second poem suggested by the ruins of Lincluden Abbey. 2 Lost as soon as won. 3 Variation: Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Scynthia reared; A stern and stalwart ghaist appeared. |