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"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 o' 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 aged 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 turn'd the wistful eye,
No 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!"

LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, ON THE APPROACH OF SPRING.

Now Nature hangs her mantle green

On every blooming tree,

And spreads her sheets o' daisies white
Out-owre the grassy lea:

Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams,
And glads the azure skies ;

But nought can glad the weary wight
That fast in durance lies.

Now laverocks wake the merry morn,

Aloft on dewy wing;

The merle, in his noontide bower,

Makes woodland echoes ring;

The mavis mild wi' many a note,
Sings drowsy day to rest:
In love and freedom they rejoice,
Wi' care nor thrall opprest.

Now blooms the lily by the bank,
The primrose down the brae;
The hawthorn's budding in the glen,
And milk-white is the slae:
The meanest hind in fair Scotland
May rove their sweets amang;
But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,
Maun lie in prison strang.

I was the Queen o' bonnie France,
Where happy I hae been,
Fu' lightly rose I in the morn,
As blythe lay down at e'en :
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland,
And mony a traitor there;
Yet here I lie in foreign bands,

And never-ending care.

But as for thee, thou false woman,

My sister and my fae,

Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword That through thy soul shall gae:

The weeping blood in woman's breast

Was never known to thee;

Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe

Frae woman's pitying ee.

My son! my son! may kinder stars

Upon thy fortune shine;

And may those pleasures gild thy reign,

That ne'er wad blink on mine!

God keep thee frae thy mother's faes,

Or turn their hearts to thee:

And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend,
Remember him for me!

Oh! soon, to me, may summer-suns
Nae mair light up the morn!
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds
Wave o'er the yellow corn!

And in the narrow house o' death
Let winter round me rave;

And the next flowers that deck the spring,
Bloom on my peaceful grave!

ON LIFE. ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE
PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796.

My honour'd colonel, deep I feel
Your interest in the Poet's weal;
Ah! now sma' heart hae I to speel

The steep Parnassus,

Surrounded thus by bolus pill,

And potion glasses.

O what a canty warld were it,

Would pain, and care, and sickness spare it; And fortune favour worth and merit,

As they deserve:

(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; Syne wha wad starve ?)

Dame Life, though fiction out may trick her, And in paste gems and frippery deck her

Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker

I've found her still,

Aye wavering like the willow wicker, "Tween good and ill.

;

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan,
Watches, like baudrans by a rattan,

Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on
Wi' felon ire;

Syne, whip! his tail ye'll ne'er cast saut on,
He's aff like fire.

Ah Nick! ah Nick! it isna fair,
First shewing us the tempting ware,
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare,
To put us daft;

Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare
O' hell's damın'd waft.

Poor man the flie, aft bizzies by,
And aft as chance he comes thee nigh,
Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks with joy,
And hellish pleasure;

Already in thy fancy's eye,

Thy sicker treasure.

Soon heels-o'er-gowdy! in he gangs,
And like a sheep-head on a tangs,
They girning laugh enjoys his pangs
And murdering wrestle,

As, dangling in the wind, he hangs
A gibbet's tassel.

But lest you think I am uncivil,

To plague you with this draunting drivel, Abjuring a' intentions evil,

I quat my pen:

The Lord preserve us frae the devil!

Amen! amen!

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