Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution For us and for our stage should onie spier, We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788, SKETCH. FOR Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, The Spanish empire's tint a head, E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck, Ye ken yoursels, for little feck. Ye bonie lasses, dight your een, For some o' you hae tint a frien'; In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. Observe the very nowt an' sheep, How dowf and daviely they creep; Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry. O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn, An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn! Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care, Thou now has got thy daddie's chair, Nae hand-cuff'd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'd Regent, But, like himsel, a full free agent. VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTRAIT OF FERGUSSON THE POET, IN A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR'S WORKS PRESENTED TO A YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH 19TH, 1787. CURSE on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, And yet can starve the author of the pleasure! O thou, my elder brother in misfortune, By far my elder brother in the Muses, LAMENT, WRITTEN AT A TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. O'ER the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail, Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore ; No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, DELIA. FAIR the face of orient day, Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, AN ODE. The flower-enamour'd busy bee But, Delia, on thy balmy lips ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. THE lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare, Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling rocks, The paly moon rose in the livid east, And 'mong the cliffs disclos'd a stately Form, In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, And mix'd her wailings with the raving storm. Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd: Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe, The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in war, Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd, That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world.-—-— 'My patriot son fills an untimely grave!' With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; 'Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride! 'A weeping country joins a widow's tear, The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; The drooping arts surround their patron's bier, And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh.— 'I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; But, ah! how hope is born but to expire! Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. 'My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 'And I will join a mother's tender cares, OF A COPY OF THE FIRST edition [of HIS POEMS], WHICH I PRESENTED ONCE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee, A lovin' father I'll be to thee, If thou be spar'd; Thro' a' thy childish years I'll ee thee, An' think't weel war'd. Gude grant that thou may aye inherit Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, Without his failins, 'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't, Than stockit mailins. LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. LETTER TO JAMES AULD Comrade dear and brither sinner, TAIT, GLENCONNOR. For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, The ace an' wale of honest men : When bending down wi' auld grey hairs, Beneath the load of years and cares, May He who made him still support him, An' views beyond the grave comfort him. |