Address to the Shade of Thomson, ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGHSHIRE, WITH BAYS. WHILE virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 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, 1 Address to the Shade of Thomson. 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! Epistle to Davie, A BROTHER POET. WHILE winds frae aff Ben Lomond blaw, And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, And hing us owre the ingle, I set me down to pass the time, In hamely westlin jingle. While frosty winds blaw in the drift Ben to the chimla lug, I grudge a wee the great folks' gift, I tent less, and want less Their roomy fire-side; But hanker and canker To see their cursèd pride. |