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TO MR. MAXWELL. Now, thank our stars! these Gothic times | He sang wi' joy the former day, are fled ;

[bred— He weeping wail'd his latter times; Now, well-bred men and you are all well But what he said it was nae playMost justly think (and we are much the I winna ventur't in my rhymes. gainers)

[ners. (269) Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor man

Liberty-1 Fragment. For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest,

* Tnearest. Ther, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, That right to fluttering female hearts the

Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song Which even the Rights of Kings in low

To thee I turn with swimming eyes ! prostration

stion Where is that soul of freedom fled ? Most humbly own-'tis dear, dear admira

imetis dear dear admira: 1 Immingled with the mighty dead! [lies ! . In that blest sphere alone we live and move:

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace There taste that life of life--immortal love. Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death! Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; airs,

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, Cain't auch an host what flinty Savage Nor give the coward secret breath. dares ?

[charms,

Is this the power in freedom's war, When awful Beauty joins with all her

That wont to bid the battle rage? Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms ?

Behold that eye which shot immortal hate,

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing But truce with kings and truce with consti

| Behold e'en grizzly death's majestic state tutions,

When Freedom's sacred glance e'en death With bloody armaments and revolutions,

is wearing. Let majesty your first attention summon, Ah! ca ira! THE MAJESTY OF WOMAN.

To Mr. Marwell,

OF TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, I Vision.

HEALTH to the Maxwell's vetran chief! As I stood by yon roofless tower (270), Healtlı, aye unsour'd by care or grief:

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air. | Inspir'd, I turn'd Fate's sybil leaf Where th' owlet mourns in her ivy bower,

This natal morn; And tells the midnight moon her care;

I see thy life is stuff o'prief, The winds were laid, the air was still,

Scarce quite half worn. The stars they shot alang the sky;

This day thou metes'st three score eleven, The fox was howling on the hill,

And I can tell that bounteous Heaven To the distant-echoing glens reply.

(The second sight, ye ken, is given

To ilka poet) The stream, adown its hazelly path,

On thee a tack o' seven times seven
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,

Will yet bestow it.
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whose distant roaring swells and fa's.

If envious buckies view wi' sorrow

Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, The cauld blue north was streaming forth

May desolation's lang teeth'd harrow, Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ;

Nine miles an hour, Athwart the lift they start and shift,

Rake them like Sodom and Gomorrah, Like fortune's favours, tint as win.

In brimstane shoureBy heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,

But for thy friends, and they are mony, And, by the moonbeam, shook to see

Baith honest men and lasses bonnie, A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,

May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

In social glee, Had I a statue been o'stane,

Wi' mornings blythe and e'énings funny, His darin' look had daunted me;

Bless them and thee! And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,

Fareweel, auld virkie! Lord be near ye, The sacred motto--“ Libertie !"

And then the deil he daurna steer ye: And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Your friends aye love, your faes aye fear ye, Might rous'd the slumb'ring dead to hear;

For me, shame fa' me, But oh! it was a tale of woe,

If near'st my heart I dinna wear ye As ever met a Briton's ear.

While BURNS they ca' me!

On Pastoral Portrn. (271)

šunnet, HAIL Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd!

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY 1793, TH. In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd BIRTHDAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A Frae common sense, or sunk unnerv'd

THRUSH SING IN A MORNING WALK. 'Mang heaps o'clavers ; SING on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless And och! owre aft thy joes hae starv'd,

bough, Mid a' thy favours !

Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, Say, Lassie, why thy train amang,

See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, While loud, the trump's heroic clang,

At thy blythe carol clears his furrow'd brow. And sock or buskin skelp alang

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear,
To death or marriage;

Sits meek Content with light unanxious Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang

heart,

[part, But wi' miscarriage ?

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives;

Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or Eschylus' pen Will Shakspeare drives;

fear. Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Horatian fanie;

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives

orient skies! Ev'n Sappho's flame.

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys, But thee, Theocritus, wha matches?

What wealth could never give nor take They're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches;

away! Squire Pope but busks his skinklin patches

| Yet come, thou child of poverty and care, O' heathen tatters:

The mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite I pass by hundred, nameless wretches,

with thee I'll share.
That ape their betters.
In this braw age o' wit and lear,
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair

Thr Tire of Librrty. (272)
Blaw sweetly in its native air

HEARD ve o' the tree o' France,
And rural grace;
And wi' the far fam'd Grecian share

I watna what's the name o't;

Around it a' the patriots dance,
A rival place ?

Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan-

It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan! A prison built by kings, man,
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, When Superstition's hellish brood
A chiel sae clever;

Kept France in leading strings, man.
The teeth o'time may gnaw Tantallan,

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
But thou's for ever!

Its virtue's a' can tell, man;
Thou paints auld nature to the nines,

It raises man aboon the brute, In thy sweet Caledonian lines ;

It maks him ken himself, man. Nae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, If ance the peasant taste a bit Where Philomel,

He's greater than a lord, man, While nightly breezes sweep the vines, And wi' the beggar shares a mite Her griefs will tell !

O' a' he can afford, man. In goweny glens thy burnie strays,

This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth,
Where bonnie lasses bleach their claes; 1 To confort us 'twas sent, man:
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes,

To gie the sweetest blush o'health,
Wi' hawthorns grey,

And mak us a' content, man.
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays It clears the een, it cheers the heart,
At close o' day.

Maks high and low guid friends, man;

And he wha acts the traitor's part,
Thy rural loves are nature's sel;

It to perdition sends, man.
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell;
Nae snap conceits, but that sweet spell My blessings aye attend the chiel,
O'witchin' love;

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man,
That charm that can the strongest quell, Ard staw'd a branch, spite o' the deil,
The sternest move.

Frae yon't the western waves, man.

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II

To Genrral Dumanrirr. A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIR. (273) YOU'RE Welcome to Despots, Dumourier ; You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. How does Dampiere do ? Ay and Bournon ville too? Why did they not come along with you,

Dumourier ? I will fight France with you, Dumourier; I will fight France with you, Dumourier I will fight France with you; I will take my chance with you; By my soul I'll dance a dance with you,

Dumourier. Then let us fight about, Dumourier; Then let us tight about, Dumourier; Then let us fight about, Till freedom's spark is out, Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt-Dumourier.

Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care,

And now she sees wi pride, man How weel it buds and blossoms there.

Its branches spreading wide, man, But vicious folk aye hate to see

The works o' Virtue thrive, man; The courtly vermin's banned the tree,

And grat to see it thrive, man, King Loui' thought to cut it down,

When it was unco'sma', man; For this the watchman cracked his crown,

Cut aff his head and a', man.
A wicked crew syne, on a time,

Did tak a solemn aith, man,
It ne'er should flourish to its prime,

I wat they pledged their faith, man;
Awa, they gaed wi' mock parade,

Like beagles hunting game, man, But soon grew weary o’ the trade,

And wished they'd been at lame, man, For Freedom, standing by the tree,

Her sons did loudly ca’, man; She sang a song o'lıberty,

Which pleased them ane and a', man. By her inspired, the new-born race

Soon drew the avenging steel, man; The hirelings ran-her foes gied chase,

And banged the despot weel, man. Let Britain boast her hardy oak,

Her poplar and her pine, man, Auld Britain auce coulil crack her joke,

And o'er her neighbours shine, man. But seek the forest round and round,

And soon 'twill be agreed, man, That sic a tree can not be found,

'Twixt London and the Tweed, man. Without this tree, alack this life

Is but a vale o' woe man ;
A scene o' sorrow mixed wi' strife,
. Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,

To feed the titled knave, man ;
And a’ the comfort we're to get,

Is that ayont the grave, man. Wi' plenty o'sic trees, I trow,

The warld would live in peace, man; The sword would help to mak a plough,

The din o'war wad cease, man. Like brethren in a common cause,

We'd on each other smile, man; And equal rights and equal laws

Wad gladden every isle, man. Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat

Sic whalesome, dainty cheer, man; I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet,

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man,

Lints SENT TO A GENTLEMAX WHOM HE IIAD OFFENDED.

(274) THE friend whom wild from wisdom's way,

The fumes of wine infuriate send (Not moony madness more astray)

Who but deplores that hapless friend? Mine was th' insensate frenzied part,

Ah, why should I such scenes outlive Scenes so abhorrent to my heart!

'Tis thine to pity and forgive.

Honoun ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. (275) How cold is that bosom which folly once

fir'd, How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd:

[tired, How silent that tongue which the echoes oft How dull is that ear which to flattery so

listen'd! If sorrow and anguish their exit await, From friendship and dearest affection

remov'd; How doubly severer. Eliza, thy fate, slov'd.

Thou diedst uuwept, as thou lived'st un.

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