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Or down Italian vista startles,
Then chance and fortune are sae guided,
game is now owre aften play'd.
Hech man! dear sirs! is that the gate
L-d, man, were ye but whyles whare I am,
the less they hae to sturt them,
Haith, lad, ye little ken about it
OCCASIONED BY THE
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and wh-ring, | How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, Niest day their life is past enduring.
For her dear sake, and her's alone! The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters,
And must I think it is she
gone, As great and gracious a' as sisters ;
My secret heart's exulting boast? But hear their absent thoughts o' ither,
And does she heedless hear my groan? They're a' run deils and jads thegither. And is she ever, ever lost? Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup and platie,
Oh! can she bear so base a heart, They sip the scandal potion pretty;
So lost to honour, lost to truth,
As from the fondest lover part,
The plighted husband of her youth! And cheat like onie unhang'd blackguard.
Alas! life's path may be unsmooth! There's some exception, man and woman;
Her way may lie thro' rough distress!
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, But this is Gentry's life in common.
Her sorrows share, and make them less? By this, the sun was out o sight And darker gloaming brought the night:
Ye winged hours that o'er us past, The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone;
Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd,
Your dear remembrance in my breast, The kye stood rowtin' i' the loan;
My fondly treasur'd thoughts employ'd. When up they gat, and shook their lugs,
That breast, how dreary now, and void, Rejoic'd they were na men, but dogs;
For her too scanty once of room! And each took off his several way,
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd, Resolv'd to meet some ither day.
And not a wish to guild the gloom!
Awakes me up to toil and woe:
I see the hours in long array,
That I must suffer, lingering, slow.
Full many a pany, and many a throe, ISSUE OF A FRIEND'S AMOUR. (121)
Keen recollection's direful train, “Alas! how oft does goodness wound itself!
Must wring my soul, ere Phæbus, low, And sweet affection prove the spring of woe!”
Shall kiss the distant, western main. Home!
And when my nightly couch I try, Oh thou pale orb, that silent shines,
Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, While care-untroubled mortals sleep!
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, Thou seest a wretch who inly pines, And wanders here to wail and weep!
Keep watchings with the nightly thief :
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, With woe I nightly vigils keep,
Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam;
Ev'n day, all-bitter, brings relief, And mourn, in lamentation deep,
From such a horror-breathing night. How life and love are all a dream.
Oh! thou bright queen, who, o'er th’exI joyless view thy rays adorn
pause, The faintly marked distant hill:
Now highest reign'st, with boundless I joyless view thy trembling horn, Reflected in the gurgling rill :
Oft has thy silent-marking glance My fondly-fluttering heart, be still!
Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray !
The time, unheeded, sped away, Thou busy pow'r, remembrance, cease!
While love's luxurious pulse beat high, Ah! must the agonizing thrill
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray,
To mark the mutual kindling eye.
Oh! scenes in strong remembrance set ! No shepherd's pipe-Arcadian strains;
Scenes never, never to return! No fabled tortures, quaint and tame:
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, The plighted faith; the mutual flame;
Again I feel, again I burn! The oft-attested Pow'rs above;
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, The promis'd father's tender name;
Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; These were the pledges of my love!
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn
A faithless woman's broken vow. Encircled in her clasping arms,
How have the raptur'd moments flown
Edina! Scottia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'ra,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
The Brigs uf Ayr.
Sidress fo Edinburgh. EDINA! Scotia’s darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and towr'rs. Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
As busy Trade his labour plies;
Bids elegance and splendour rise; Here Justice, froin her native skies,
High wields her balance and her rod; There learning, with his eagle eyes,
Seeks Science in her coy ahode. Thy sons, Edina! social, kind,
With open arms the stranger hail ; Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind,
Above the narrow, rural vale ; Attentive still to sorrow's wail,
Or modest merit's silent claim; And never may their sources fail !
And never envy blot their name! Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn,
Gay as the gilded summer sky, Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn,
Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye,
Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine; I see the Sire of Love on high,
And own his work indeed divine (122)! There, watching high the least alarms.
Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar: Like some bold vet’ran, grey in arms,
And mark'd with inany a seaming scar: The pondrous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock; Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repell’d th' invader's shock, With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome, Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Fam'd heroes! had their royal home: Alas, how chang'd the times to come!
Their royal name low in the dust! Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam,
Tho'rigid law cries out, 'twas just! Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore, Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply, my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar,
Bold-following where your fathers led !
INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTYNE, ESQng
AYR. The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush;
(shrill, The soaring lark, the perching red-breast Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling
D'er the hill; Shall he, uurst in the peasant's lowly shed, To hardy independence bravely bred, By early poverty to hardship steel’d, And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's
fieldShall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes ? Or labour hard the panegyric close, With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? No! though his artless strains he rudely sings,
(strings, And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear re
ward! Still, if some patron's gen'rous care he trace, Skill'd in the secret to bestow with grace; When Ballantyne befriends his humble
name, And hands the rustic stranger up to fame, With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom
swells, The god-like bliss, to give, alone excels.
'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap,
[crap ; And thack and rape secure the toil-won Potato-bings are snugged up frae skaith Of coming Il'inter's biting, frosty breath; The bees, rejoicing o'er their suinmer toils, Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs' delicious spoils,
with frugal care in massive waxen Are dooni'd by man, that tyrant o'er the weak,
[reek: The death o' devils smoor'd wi' brimstone