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Phæbus' scorching beams; In flaming summer-pride, Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams,
And drink my crystal tide.
The lightly jumping, glowrin trouts,
That thro' my waters play,
They near the margin stray ;
I'm scorching up so shallow,
In gasping death to wallow.
Last day I grát wi' spite and teen,
As Poet B**** came by,
Wi' half my channel dry :
Even as I was he shor'd me; But had I in my glory been,
He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.
Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I riks) VOL. II.
There, high my boiling torrent smokes,
Wild-roaring o'er a linn: Enjoying large each spring and well
As nature gave them me, I am, altho' I say 't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.
Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes, He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees,
And bonnie spreading bushes. Delighted doubly then, my Lord,
You 'll wander on my banks, And listen mony a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.
The sober laverock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
Shall sweetly join the choir:
The mavis mild and mellow; The robin pensive autumn chear,
In all her locks of yellow :
This too, a covert shall ensure,
To shield them from the storm; And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form: Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow'rs; Or find a shelt’ring safe retreat,
From prone descending show'rs.
And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair, Despising worlds with all their wealth As empty
idle care : The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav'n to grace,
To screen the dear embrace.
Here happy too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray, And
eye the smoking dewy-lawn, And misty mountain, grey ; Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild-chequering thro' the trees, Rave to my darkly dashing stream, Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread, And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' wat’ry bed :
My craggy cliffs adorn;
The close embow'ring thorn.
So may, Old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honour'd native land ! So may thro' Albion's farthest ken,
To social flowing glasses, The grace
be“ Athole's honest men, 66 And Athole's bonnie lasses !”
SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL
A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS
Why, ye tenants of the lake, For me your wa’try haunt forsake ? Tell me, fellow-creatures, why At my presence thus you fly? Why disturb your social joys, Parent, filial, kindred ties? Common friend to you and me, Nature's gifts to all are free: Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, Busy feed, or wanton lave;