v 5 ^ ^ / ^ .,# ^ f # ^ \rf ; ^>- JULY za, 1944 X ! 7? The Author of the following Rhymes, aware of the high degree of excellence which poetry, in these days, must possess, to entitle it to public favour, felt extremely diffident in putting his trifling lucubrations to the press. He had in view only his own amusement when composing them, and the beguiling of hours that circumstances rendered irksome and tedious: though his path through life has not been an unvaried one, a constant love of change made scenes to him insipid, which, to minds composed of less volatile ingredients, would have continued long pleasing; and, when real objects failed to please, recourse was had to Fancy, to create ideal ones; and, under her influence, he has dreamed hours away, which might have been spent much more usefully and profitably. Till advised by his friends, into whose hands some of his pieces had accidently fallen, he never entertained IV the idea that they would appear in public: by such advice, though not without his own fears for their success, he submits them to the world. Half a century has not yet elapsed, since an indi- vidual in the humbler ranks of life, without the advan- tages of a liberal education, might have essayed, with a much brighter prospect of success than at present, to obtain distinction by his poetical effusions. The exertions of unlettered Fancy, however feeble, would, at one time, have got, at least, an indulgent reception ; while, at this day, such perhaps will scarcely obtain a patient perusal. So great, indeed, has been the revolution in taste since the days in which Burns wrote, that, were a similar genius to arise, it is much to be doubted whether his works would obtain so large a share of popular favour ; and, if we believe the testimonies of many individuals, who lived in the vicinity of the place where the first edition of his works made its appear- ance, his claims to literary reputation might have sunk into ungenerous oblivion — so little interest did they excite, until recommended by the judicious criticisms of the learned friends which his powerful genius raised up for him. His transcendent powers then burst upon the sight of the world with irresistible splendour; and, though time may bury the recollection in oblivion, it never can erase the record ; and have eclipsed the exertions of many, who have had a fair claim to public notice. We, indeed, may still admire the exertions of some, who, with advantages, in point of education and place in society, no way superior to Burns, have given undoubted indications of poetic power; but, still the lustre of their performances will be greatly diminished in consequence of the extensive diffusion of the works of our much-lamented Bard, which almost render similar attempts to amuse unne- cessary ; so varied are his themes, that they answer all the purposes to which those in humble life wish to appty Poetry; and, when the Works of a Poet like the late Mr. Muiit of Campsie are almost unknown, few indeed may hope to excite more than a very local and temporary interest. These remarks are not advanced to insinuate that poetic genius, even amongst the unlearned, is now to have no claim to public notice; or to sound forth the praises of the present production, or even to hint that the Author would have had a claim to distinction though the genius of Burns had never shewn itself; but merely in commiseration of the pangs, which not a few have endured, and many may still have to endure, A 3 VI at seeing the fruit of their labours withering on the counter of some petty retail snuff-shop— or used in wrapping some part of the miscellaneous stock of provisions, which the careful housewife carries home with her, on a Saturday evening, for the wants of the succeeding day — or perhaps lending its inspiring aid to add new beauties to the brow of some loving and beloved abigail — or sporting a-V epaulette on the shoulder of some greasy mechanic under the hebdom- adal operation of the barber. Such, alas! have been the fate of many volumes, over which the fond authors have shed tears of joy ; and, though critics may have no sympathy for the sufferers in such catastrophes, the unfortunate writers might, at least, obtain the pity, if not the thanks, of their fellows^ for humbly attempting to amuse. There are some readers so exquisitely fastidious, that they decry every humble attempt made by obscure individuals to obtrude their works on the world, and think nothing of consigning, " at one fell swoop," their whole labours to the regions of literary perdition, never taking into consideration, that less squeamish minds might find a pleasure in tracing the wanderings of fancies similar to their own ; their own appetites sated, they never think that others are obliged to fast ; and Vll revelling in all the luxuries that exquisite imagination, and high flowing fancy, can cater for their banquets, it is surely unjust to deprive their less fortunate brethren of the scanty repast that the lowly muse may strive to regale them with, overlooking the little chance the many have of enjoying works of a more learned and refined kind, from their little acquaintance with books and the world ; these exquisites use their utmost efforts to make that chance still less, by depreciating humble genius which might have assisted in preparing humble minds to use delicacies, which want of custom had stamped as insipid, if not loathsome. He who is disposed to look over these pages with a critic's eye will, without doubt, find in them many errors; and, though no writers, who pub- lish, have a right to ask the world to overlook their faults, yet the writer of these bagatelles would plead in extenuation — the want of literary friends, who mio-ht have assisted him in correcting what may have appeared improper. With respect to their merit, he hopes all will keep in mind the Author's own diffidence in respect to them, and that he is not one of those who spend their time in literary pursuits, and be some- what more lenient than they might have been on one of greater learning and experience. Vlll He hopes no misconstruction will be put on the sentiments which any of the pieces breathe, as none are intended to give offence; and he trusts there is nothing in them that will raise a blush on the cheek of modesty, or elicit a disapproving scowl from the brow of the most rigidly pious, or offend even the tortuous-minded politi- cian, who is perpetually looking for stones over which he may stumble. A love for his vernacular idiom has induced him to write some of his pieces in the Scottish dialect, notwithstanding the repeated disapprovals of those who reckon it disgusting. The many attempts that have been made, in late years, to rescue from oblivion obsolete and traditionary pieces of poetry, of the dialects of other days, when set in opposition to the wishes that the Scottish Muse should be now neglected, is an anomaly which, perhaps, would require some ingenuity to account for. As no popular works are now written in the Scottish dia- lect, Novels excepted, Poetry appears to be the only vehicle to convey to posterity the gradual approxima- tion, which our native tongue makes to that of our southern neighbours: thus, in the works of Ramsay many Scotticisms are found, which, in the days of Burns, were not used ; even though an allowance be made for the different districts to which the bards IX belonged ; which evidence its falling rapidly into disuse. Though it is not to be desired that the Scottish dia- lect should be cultivated as an attainment in writing Poetry, yet, as a memento of an expiring and very expressive mode of speaking and writing, it should always command respect, and, from every genuine North Briton, veneration and regard. It is the tongue in which our forefathers defended the civil and religious rights of our country, against the machinations of superstition and tyranny; and every effort to bring it into contempt should be reprobated as an act of ingratitude, if not malignancy. If the Author has been guilty of imitation, he hopes he has seldom been guilty of plagiarism ; and he can plead, as precedents for the former crime, many whom it is unnecessary to mention. To his Subscribers, he takes this opportunity of begging them to accept his sincere thanks for their kind and unmerited assistance, in enabling him to bring forward the publication. If they be disappointed in the expectations they had formed of the performance> he will have to regret his inability to make it more inter- esting; and he begs they will believe him gratefully sen- sible of the obligations they have laid him under, which he hopes will ever have a place in his remembrance. ERRATA. Page 55, line 15 — for, fear thy face, read, fear your face — 91, — 14 — for, is wastin', are wastin*. — 103, — 15— for, and 'tis wiii'd, read, and when \h wili'tL CONTENTS. Invocation, . . \ • Pago IS On seeing a beautiful Blind Girl, . . 19 Parody on Campbell's Hohenlinden, . . 21 On seeing some people weeping at a funeral, . 23 The Times, . . . . 26 To Sympathy, . • . . . 33 Epistle to Bombr. J. S. F , • . 35 Lines to the Memory of Major Lloyd, R. A. . .. 38 To Sleep, * . 40 Lament on the Death of Dolly Towens, » * 44 Reflections, . . . . . 48 Prayer, . . 51 On the Death of an Aged Friend, . . . 53 To a Flea, . . 56 Attempted Versification of part of the XV. chapt erof Exodus, 60 To Discontent, * . 62 To Reflection, . .. 65 The Scavenger, . . • 69 To Bombr. J, S. F. , • 72 Valentine to a Lady, ; • . 78 The Deserter, . . . • 79 Epistle to a Friend, • • . 92 Farewell Imitatory Epistle, . . 100 Address to the Woolwich Caledonian Society i . 11 Arnold, .... • . 115 Xll Epitaph on a Soldier . . . Page 125 ■ — on Bonaparte, . . . .125 — — — for a Quack Doctor, . . , 225 — — — on an Itinerant Poet, . . .126 SONGS. Whan the mind is sad an* dreary, . , . jg7 Thy heart is cauld as thesnaw, lassie, . . .127 The sun of to-morrow may gild my low grave, . 129 The flowers that deck'd my bridal bed, . . .129 Night has stown the day frae heaven, . . 130 The soldier sleeps in a hero's grave, . . . 132 Ah! that beauty decays, as the breeze that conveys, . 132 Are friendship and love like a sweet fleeting dream ? .133 Adieu, native land, soon the wide stormy sea, . I34 When on hope's giddy wings, in the season of youth, . 135 Every one is a Dandy, . . • . 136 O, Molly, Molly, thou art dead, . . .137 Notes, . . . . . 139 INVOCATION. (SEE OVID'S METAMORPHOSES.) Assist me now, ye heavenly Nine ; An' ye, my natal powers, combine ; For, faith, to court ye I incline, At least wad try, Gin ye wad only be sae kin* As hear my cry. I needna here attempt your praise In my uncouth' an' hamely lays ; Nor need I tell, how ye the bays Frae daughters won O* Fella's king ; nor mak' a phrase 'Bout Helicon. u Nor yet, how frae Pyreneus ye Escap'd, O shame to tell ! whan he Wad made ye, what ye sudna be, The nasty loon ! Nor how, whan after you he'd flee, He tum'Ied down. Sic words frae me ye dinna need, Nor need I your displeasure dread, For, faith, I dinna rhyme for bread, Nor yet for claise— The King has bargained me to feed 1 Tor a' my days. O ! for a portion o? the fire That did the saul o' Burns inspire, Wha proudly rais'd the Scottish lyre, Nae mair to fa' ! An' gard a listenin' wari* admire Wi' silent awe ! You bright, inspirin', heavenly chiel, Wha mak's through heaven your fiery wheel, An* owre the Crab and Bear does spiel Wi* muckle speed, J you entreat, gin you be weel, To my remead. 15 What, though your face frae me be hid By some dark intervenin clud', Gin ye wad only be sae gude As hear my prayer, To praise ye lang as warm's my bluid, Shall be my care. Patron o' music and o' rhyme r Gay, melancholy an' sublime, Your puir addresser fain wad climb Your sacred mountain, Wad fain hae't said that, in his time,. He preed your fountain. YeVe aft been sham'd by lyres on earthy A poet sings o' muckle worth ; But, in the time o' drouth an' dearth, An' warl'y scant, Whate'er we get to bless the hearth Sud mak' content. Though nane sin' Shakespeare's days hae sang Sae weel, yet some hae sang as lang, Some twenty volumes in a bang, I've ken'd them write, Tort'rin' their sauls wi* mony a pang To praise ye right. b2 16 The Gods ave said, or they're belied, To tak* the will whiles for the deed; A convert to that soothin' creed My voice I raise, Wi' a* my saul to gi'e a screed O' simple praise. Whan Orpheus sang wi* muckle skill, An's lyre was heard owre dale an* hill, Whan Thracian hizzies did him kill, It griev'd ye sair ; An* Bacchus to revenge the ill Made it his care— For in the grun* he stuck them stieve; An', though the jauds did muckle grieve, Just wi' the shakin' o' his nieve, They there took root, An', gin auld Ovid we believe, Began to sprout. Puir Orpheus, though strange to tell, A second time gaed down to hell ; An' there wi* Eurydice did dwell, An' sweetly rove ; Or in some sweet Elysian dell Wad sing o' love. 17 Yes, Sol, ye weel deserve a daud O' praise, since nane but you can haud Your chariot reins, though ance a lad Did sae aspire, An' nearhan' set, sae ill he caud, The warl' on fire. You chap, wha dwalls the wuds amang, An' cheers the shepherds wi' your sang, Outowre whase buttocks goat-hairs hang, Down to the heel, Wi' clutes upon your feet to gang Like ony dieL Whan you unequal war did wage, An' wi' the Delian did engage, Auld Tmolus, reverend wi' age, W? oaken wreath, As umpire sat, baith grave an' sage, Atween ye baith= Your reed, 'twas said, cou'd ne'er inspire Our sauls like Phoebus wi' his lyre; Whilk shortly made the aged sire His judgement gi'e Against you, Pan, an' did desire Ye baith to gree, b3 18 Though Sol a triumph thus you cost, An' though the lyre maun hae the boast, To sing o* battles won an* lost, An* rage an' madness, O* storms, an' thun'er, snaw an* frost, Despair and sadness. Yet, Pan, your reed has charms for me, Its simple strains sae bonnily Steal owre the ear; be pleas'd to gi'e Your rustic aid, Gin I inclin'd to sing sud be O' grove or shade. I'll thank ye a' for what ye gi'e me, I'll ne'er misca', nor yet belie ye, As lang's the Fates a saxpence lea* me To raise a gill, I'll drink your health, or ne'er forgi'e me, But scorn me still. ON SEEING A BEAUTIFUL BLIND GIRL. Sweet Maid, in endless darkness doom'd to dwell. In vain for thee the pitying bosom heaveth ; O! be thou blest in fancy's choicest dell, Where kind imagination's web she weaveth ; And be thou happier far than man believeth Misfortune's children can be here below : Aught ne'er beset thee that the spirit grieveth "While pilgrimising in this vale of woe, W T here fretting mankind sigh — for what they ne'er can know. Thy sightless orbs, in changeless darkness rolling* Might make thee shed the bitter, hopeless, tear; And yet thou seemest not to need consoling : Thy source of comfort's in another sphere- There happiness aboundeth, misery here— 20 And there thou humbly hop'st to rest for ever — Where sorrowing spirits bid adieu to fear, When death the bonds of life doth kindly sever, And wafts us o'er the dark, and fearful gloomy river, O happiness ! thy face is ever changing, Camelion-like, with life's unnumber'd hues'— And man, like some capricious insect, ranging Through all its sad varieties and views, Eager to taste, yet seeming to refuse, Like epicure, procrastinating pleasure^— Oft fooling with himself until he lose What might have prov'd to him a boundless treasure, And then, alas! reflects — and sighs beyond all measure. Though nature seal'd thine eyes in gloomy night, Nor deign'd to let thee at her beauties wonder, Yet she bestow'd on thee a mind as bright As e'er in secret lov'd in thought to ponder : And calm content and thee are ne'er asunder ; 21 Thy placid face bespeaks a quiet breast, Where unavailing wishes are got under Reason's dominion. Peace be aye thy guest, Who thinkst the Almighty's will must ever be the best. PARODY ON CAMPBELL'S HOHENLINDEN. In misery, when my purse was low, And friendless was my path below, How dull and gloomy was the flow Of spirits sinking rapidly. My spirits felt in better key When money chanc'd to rest with me, Commanding dulness, care, to flee, Welcoming mirth's machinery. By fire in comfort snugly plac'd, Each toper seiz'd his glass's waist, M And loudly we our voices rais'd, In mirth and song and revelry. Then shook the room with joyful shout ; Then briskly flew the glass about - r Vociferations — drink it out — Were made by all, stentoriously. The banquet enters — on ye brave ! Who keenly feel fell hunger's crave; Wave ceremony ! fashion wave ! And fall to most voraciously. 'Tis morn, but scarce yon rising sun Can tempt, or cause us yet to shun The festive board, though many a one Lies stretch-d beneath its canopy. Few, few, can part as they did meet, The floor's been many's only sheet, And many a one has rested feet On those who lay unconsciously. ON SEEING SOME PEOPLE WEEPING AT A FUNERAL. Farewell, — that which belongs to earth The earth has claim'd — man, from thy birth Thou art the child of sorrow : A piece of animated clay, With mind as varied as the day, Is oft with coming morrow. Weep not because he has gone down Unto the silent house of death — But weep that ye must follow soon, And, like him, soon resign your breath — If Fortune smiles benignly at your side, And want is known, but to be gratified. Here misery's children find repose — Behold the end of all your woes, Your parent earth, whose arms 24 Are ready ever to embrace, And give ye all a resting place, Impervious to alarms. O Death ! thy aspect oft is kind, Unto the child of grief and care- Each friend's demise but brings to mind, That 'tis a fate we all must share — But, if ye will, why weep, — 'cause he before Hath ta'en his leave of this most dreary shore, For men in sorrow selfish are,— They, singly, ill would never share So, if yeve lost a friend, "Who, when ye sorrowed, would stand by, With moist and sympathetic eye, And strive your woe to end. Well may ye weep — but even then It might be envy caus'd the tear : Say, should we sorrow even when 25 Our friends have done with mourning here, Or weep that they, no longer here sojourn'd, Because they sorrow'd, when they found we mourn'd ? Say, do ye weep that he is dead, And laid in this — the last sad bed — Say, is't for this ye weep ? Did sorrow cause the trickling tear With which ye did bedew his bier, When ye his wake did keep ? And, did ye lift away death's mask, To mark the sad unsightly face ; And mourn because it was a task Impos'd on all the human race ? Tears, are like debts, we to each other ow We pay them when we must— in joy and woe. THE TIMES, 1816, -OR LITTLE CAUSES MAY PRODUCE GREAT EFFECTS. Whilst on my bed, the ither night, My thoughts were upwards driving Twa chiels appear'd before my sight Wi' ane anither striyin'. Quo' ane o' them, his name was Pate, " Sae weel I lo'e the nation, I think I'll try to save the state, By makin' an oration This vera night/ The ither ane, they ca'd him Jock, Says, " Pate, be nae sae silly, Nor try na ye to mak' sma' fock Be to the great illwilly : Wad ye be thought a man o' sense, Try ye nae public speakin' — Your fund o' borrow'd eloquence Is like a grumphy's squeakin', Gin I judge right." Quo' Pate, " To see ane's name in print I'm sure's a glorious thing, man; Ambition bids me tak' the hint, An' mak' their lugs to ring, man : Jist look ye now at Mr. H , Wha fills the papers fir 5 , man, An' gars their vera hearts play dunt Against their sides I trow, man, An* sweat wi' frights A wee bit stick can weel be made To hae as muckle power, man, As lift what wad a waggon lade, An' tunVle't owre an owre, man j c2 £8 Frae out the wee'st lum a spark May fire the biggest ha', man ; A flea beneath a monarch's sark Will gar the owner claw, man, Though out o' sight." " Nae doubt," quo' Jock, " but that's a' true — But, gin the stick sud break, man, The load might tum'le owre on you, An* ablins break your neck, man ; The wee lum, frae whence cam' the spark, By its approximation, Unto the ha', if chance 'twere dark, Might, in the conflagration, Be burn'd outright." " Weel, weel," quo' Pate, « an' yet for a' There still remains a chance, man ; A horse, whan doucely gaun, may fa', Yet keep his feet an' prance, man — % Sae I'm resolv'd to hae a try, Come weel, come wae, I carena — There's something seems to say frae high, Come on, my lad, an' fearna, A* will be right. " Weel do ye ken my father spar'd Nae cost to lair me weel, man ; An', as an honest kintra laird, I'm thought a clever chiel, man ; What ails me, then, but I sud speak y An' bauldly the lists enter ; Wad ye compare a grumphy's squeak, Wi' ane wi' lungs like Stentor, To sound it right? " Now, for a specimen, to let Ye ken my power o' voice, man j Upon this table will I get, Wi' your help, in a trice, man ; c 3 30 Now listen to me, gin ye please, Suppose me in the rostrum, While I describe the state's disease, As weel's prescribe the nostrum, To set it right. " Gude Kintramen, I've cam', ye see, " To let ye ken the way, Sirs, " That things hae turn'd out as they be ; " Listen, but naething say, Sirs : " The Ministers, corrupted set ! " Together meet to prey, Sirs, " Upon the commonwealth, an' yet " They conscience hae to say, Sirs, "A' will be right, ! w But, gude Sirs, dinna them believe, " They only speak in jeests, Sirs, " Nor dinna ye yoursel's deceive " Wi' charitable feasts, Sirs; m w They your petitions will despise, " Howe'er they be presented ; " Say, therefore, if I might advise, " It ought to be resented " By day an' night. " To kill a serpent, dinna tread " Upon the serpent's tail, Sirs, " But crush the reptile on the head, " 'Twill finish him, I'se bail, Sirs ; " Whan to the plough we put a han', " Ne'er backwards turn our view, Sirs— " But face to face, and bran' to bran', " Let's shew what we can do, Sirs, « Our wrangs to right.' Here Pate began to stamp an' roar, An' jump wi' a' his might, Sirs, Whan down he fell upon the floor, Jock leugh to see the sight, Sirs- m " Weel, are ye done wi' speakin now/' Quo' Jock. — Pate roar'd out, « Feggs, man \ O help me up, what will I do ! I've nearhan broke my legs, man — Hech, what a fright ( rt Ye orators, I'd have you tak* A warnin' by this chiel, Sirs, Or aiblins ye your necks may break, By tryin' sae to spiel, Sirs, Up trees o* sic uncanny height, Whilk nae belang to you, Sirs; I would advise, for by this light, Sic things will never do, Sirs, For they're no right. TO SYMPATHY. Addressed to Bombr. J. S. F , 4M Bat in. B. A. 1819. How sweet is the voice of sympathy, To the sorrowing mind that's fill'd with pain! How dull is the ear of apathy, When it lists, when it lists, to the mourner's strain! As a shower, in a sultry summer noon, Extracts the sweets from the parched rose, So a tear is sweet, kind Sympathy's boon* Oh! it soothes, Oh! it soothes, the wretch's woes. Oh ! how sweet is the sound of welcome here, To the weary wandering traveller wight: 34 But sweeter far, is the fall of the tear, When it gives, when it gives, to the heart delight. How sweet to the peasant, the time of the year, When the toil of the reaper is past, and o'er : But sweeter the fall of the joy-giving tear, When distill'd, when distill'd, by the eye we adore. How sweet 'tis to sit in the evening calm, And gaze on the stream where the moon-beams play? But sweeter by far is the friendly balm, That can bring, that can bring, kind comfort's ray. The bosom how sweet, into which we can pour, When the mind's ill at ease, all its cares and its woes — Where the heart seeks for comfort, if sorrow should lower- 'Tis the place, 'tis the place, where I'd wish to repose. EPISTLE TO BOMBr. J. S. F , 4th Battn. R A. Dear Jamie, — What can ail ye now, That ne'er a word I hear frae you? Are frien'ship's debts nae langer due, Or memory quite Impaired, or are ye daft or nY, An* cauna write ? Or has your inkhorn dried for ever ? Your brittle quill got its last shiver ? Hae you gane daun'rin' owre the river, In Charon's wherry? If sae, gude faith ! ye hae been clever, To cross the ferry! An' luckless I, though e'er sae fain, Can never hear frae you again, Unless you're blest wi' iEneas' brain, Or Orpheus' skill, To visit our puir earthly plain An' crack at will. 36 Hae you the gloomy portal past, To whilk we a' are hasten in' fast ? "Whare even the bravest stan' aghast, An' shake wi' fear- Dread gulph ! that yawns for a* at last O' earthly sphere. Gin wan'rin' through Elysian bowers, An' snuffin' sweet ambrosial flowers, Refresh'd by nectar's sweetest showers, I'll tak' it kind, If ye'd but think, on ane whase hours Yet lag behind. To ane like you, sae born to pry 'Mang ferlies, wi' a curious eye, There maun be muckle rare employ, In sic a place, Whare waefu misery sits, or joy, On ilka face. Hae ye seen Sysiphus row his stane ? Or heard puir Ixion sigh an' grane ? Or dowie Tantalus mak' his mane Wi' needfu' crave ? Or Danaides, mark'd wi' muckle pain, The waters lave ? 37 O ! hae ye drank the Lethean draught, Whilk is wi' sweet oblivion fraught ? — If sae, my writin' comes to naught, An* tint's the paper, An' toil an' a', wi' whilk I faught, Owre midnight taper But, ablins, ye're alive an* weel, But frien'ship langer canna feel For me, a puir, an' luckless, diel By fortune tost. Alas ! to think ye sic a chiel, A pang wad cost. Be ony o' these cases true, Accept a lang, a last, adieu, Frae ane, wha ne'er wish'd ill to you, Sin' he could claim A frien's remembrance, still 'tis due To — LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MAJOR LLOYD R. A. Who Fell at Waterloo, June, 1815. Where thy children, O Albion! have oft fought and bled, And where heroes lie sleeping in glory's lone bed — When Gaul's dreaded monarch, in pomp and in might, Led on his brave legions with Britons to fight — When the cannon peaFd loudly, and death stalk'd around, And the life-blood of foemen, lay mix'd on the ground — Where the steel-shrouded cuirassier, reckless, did ride — There, death's gloomy mantle encompass'd brave Lloyd. Long the friends of the dead the sad carnage shall mourn, And the stain'd page of history the record adorn. While the peasant can point to the bed of the brave, Still the tear-drop will fall, as he treads o'er their grave. 3 Twas indeed a sad triumph, as poets have sung, And the strain was familiar, to infantine tongue: 39 Yet the stern cannonier, may the song partial chide, And, in measure uncouth, sing the memory of Lloyi>. O! the sabre, corroding, may hang in the sheath, For he dreams not of glory, that resteth in death; And the charger, uncall'd for, may neigh in his stall ; And the trumpet be mute now, he hears not its call ; No more will the battle-shout, rending the sky, Rouse his courage, or light up with gladness his eye; For death on the wings of destruction did ride, And the cannonier sighs as he thinks upon Lloyi>. Yes, he fell, though no minstrel has told the sad tale? And his memory has pass'd, like the cloud on the gale; And the hand, that to glory could well point the way, Lies, nerveless, commix'd with its own native clay; Still remembrance the tribute of sorrow may claim — Though the muse has been silent, nor urg'd the sad theme, Yet the stern cannonier, may the long silence chide, And, in measure uncouth, sing the memory of Lloyd. d2 TO SLEEP, A FRAGMENT. Hail, wonderous power ! that strews the couch of toil With roses, sweeter than this world can boast, Hail, soothing power ! that can of care beguile The heart, to every other comfort lost — Yet thou art absent oft, where needed most — A fickle power, thou shun'st the couch of sorrow ; }vJor seek'st the bed whereon the wretch is tost, Who has no pleasing thought to cheer the morrow, And, from the fount of hope, no future draught can borrow Yes, thou art absent oft, when most thou'rt needed — The victim of ingratitude, I ween, Sighs on her couch, by thee, by all, unheeded ; And falls the tear-drop by the world unseen — The morrow comes, kind nature gilds the scene, 41 Her palid features, then, assume a smile — But 'tis a smile of anguish, sad, and keen, But serves the reckless gazer to beguile— And woeful is the heart, that stoops to such a wile. How little man knows of his fellow man, Who only marks the outward glittering show ; For pleasure's eye will seldom deign to scan The silent sorrow, or the shrouded woe ; And many a suffering soul there is below, Whose face unclouded seems, while aches his heart With secret grief, life's dark insidious foe, Writhing in pain, yet smiling at the smart, While misery deeper strikes — her keen envenom'd dart. Oh! I have watch'd the eye of silent grief, Have seen the ready, yet reluctant, tear Emerge, and downward steal like midnight thie£ Who thinks he lurks unseen, while some one near Marks him. — The withering sigh hath met mine ear d 3 Of deep despair, while the suppress'd emotion Struggled convulsively, yet strove to cheer, With smiles, the victim of her kind devotion — Such silent suffering sure — is sorrow's bitterest potion. Hail, Sleep! thou oft hast brought the wanderer home In dreams ; thou oft hast set the prisoner free. Hail, kindly power ! thou mak'st the lovers roam Together, though they're parted by the sea. Though waking thoughts be sad ; yet, blest with thee, Our sorrows, for a while, are lull'd to rest. Yet, why so distant oft, when thou canst be The only welcome, or the wish'd for, guest? In whose embrace alone — the child of sorrow's blest I Hail, potent power ! whose mighty arm can seal The eye, when gazing on the face of death! — a Thou, imperceptibly, on all dost steal, And soon thy wonderous influence we're beneath, Wrapt in oblivion, and thy poppied wreath 43 Girding our temples, all is soon forgot— The eye of hatred, the envenom'd breath Of slander, and the voice of anger hot — And misery ends her tale, and grief forgets to dote. Hail, antidote to every human grief! Thou, in thy bosom, hidst the blush of shame; Guilt, stript of terror, gets from thee relief — The slave his liberty, the fameless fame ; The patriot, despairing, sees the flame Of freedom, mounting upward to the sky — Restless ambition culls himself a name, And poets, en the wings of fancy fly, And dream of halcyon days and immortality. LAMENT For the Death of DOLLY TOW ENS, a celebrated Gossip in the Village of Tynemonth t Northumberland, Hech me the day ! puir honest wife, Thou hast departed frae this life, Nae in air to mix in care an' strife, Nor wag that tongue Whilk was o' information rife O' auld an' young. Nae mair will scandal grace that lip, On whilk the worm, and moudy, sip ; Nae mair the tongue, that clouts could clip, Be heard to gang—* Ah, na ! thou'st slyly ta'en the slip Frae us amang. Nae mair, at thy bit shop, we'll stop, Thy news to hear, or ours to drop ; Gossips, despair! an' pine! an' mope! An' glumly look! For Death on her did slyly pop, An' has her took. 45 Secrets right weel she could divine, An* stones tell o' auld langsyne ; Nae minstrel, on the banks o' Tyne, Could haud a can'le To her, whane'er she did incline Auld tales to han'le. Gin ony lass wad slip a fit, Gin ony lad his mark wad hit, Right sune she'd be acquainted wi't, An' weel could tell The ins, an' outs, an' a', 'bout it, As weel's theirsel*. An' weel could she the actions scan, O' maid or widow, wife or man; An* nane like her, could ever plan An assignation, Or yet arrange the how, the whan, In a' the nation. Mourn, gossips! mourn; below the clod Puir Dolly's ta'en, her last abode, Wha hated men, and lo'ed her God, Low- stretch 'd she lies, An* owre her head rank nettles nod, An' winter sighs. 46 Gossips, to us her memory's dear— Wha can restrain the bitter tear ! Whilk on our cheeks will aye appear Whane'er we mention, That name she did to us endear Past comprehension? E'en now, folks say she canna rest. For she wi* something's sair opprest, That, frae her anxious, lab'ring, breast, Wad fain hae vent ; That she her auld walks does infest, To speak intent.* Then kin'Iy let's the secret crave, To ease the saul o' ane sae brave, Wha nobly dares to lea' the grave, To bring us back Something, frae out that dismal cave, To be a crack. * It was confidently reported, and firmly believed by many folks in Tyne- mouth, that the spirit of this strange person visited this sublunary world after interment. She died in 1817 or 1818. 47 In life she ne'er could rest, or sleep, Gin she a secret had to keep, What ferlie then, gin she sud creep, The grave outowre, To tell her tale to them wha weep Her dying hour. An', Oh ! the win's may cease their blawin', An' Lammas rains gi'e owre their fa'in', An' cats their waulin', cocks their crawin', May cease to gi'e ! But, while the tide o' life is flawin', We'll think on thee. The sun, himsel', will fail to shine, Ere we thy recollection tine; The epicure forego his wine, The king his state, The dog his bone, the priest his coin ; But, sune an' late, We'll think upon the waefu' day, That saw thee faulded in the clay ; The clerk responded, priest did pray, An' mony a sigh Was gi'en, to waft thee on thy way, To kingdoms high. 48 " We could hae spar'd a better woman,'* But, Death, thou always art inhuman, Else thou wouldst ne'er hae sent thy summon, Sae indiscreet, To her, or now, in kingdom comin', Puir Dolly greet. But, fare thee weel, the yirth is owre thee; Frien's are behin', an' frien's before thee; Foul fa' the han' o' Death that tore thee, Frae us away ! For, while we've life, we maun deplore thee, By night an' day. REFLECTIONS, Excited by hearing of a Soldiery tvho tvas killed by a Random Shot after the Battle tvas over. The battle-sound had ceas'd — the sun, beneath Night's dark embrace, had sunk, saddening the plain ; Still peal'd the gun at intervals, as Death, Unsated yet with havoc, eyed the slain, Grumbling at those who had escap'd his reign, 49 And yet were left, to mourn their fellows dead ; And here ascended many a wretch's strain, Struggling with death ; here, recklessly would tread The ruthless peasant's feet, while rifling glory's bed. They say, 'tis awful battle-fields to view, Where friends and comrades fallen have in fight When strife to-morrow will commence anew, And dark Destruction only sleeps in night : 'Tis awful too, to gaze upon the light, That, meteor-like, irradiates the scene That parts the armies — to the wearied sight, From cannon belching death, while oft between Is heard the yell of pain, and suffering, unseen. The soldier, wearied with the battle's toil, Sat musing — it might be of friends or home — For thought, at such a time, may stray awhile : — Distance, and danger, wheresoe'er we roam, Endear, unto the mind, the little dome E 50 Of infancy — aye, more than tongue can tell ; Friends still more kind appear, when parted from. And hang upon the heart, like fairy spell, And still we sigh to have another last farewell. When Death seems hovering near, 'tis hard to think. How soon one's memory may be forgot ! Sad recollection lingers on the brink, And tells the wanderer of his hapless lot, How in the narrow house he'll lie and rot, Far from his kindred dust, on distant shore, Where friendly finger ne'er can point the spot, Where rest the bones of him whose life is o'er, When oceans roll between, and mountains proudly soar. Thus might the soldier muse, when, ne'er to rise, A bullet laid him prostrate, reft of life; Thus death, on those in seeming safety, flies, And in a moment finishes the strife Of earthly hope ; with ever-ready knife, 51 Fertile in dark resource, he watchful stands, Full of expedient, in invention rife, He deals his dole with dread unsparing hands, And high and low, alike, obey the sad commands. Man is a selfish creature, fain would he That, in the grave, his memory should not sleep; Many have sigh'd for immortality, Whose best Mementos are — they're buried deep; And still possession of the world would keep : Ambition thus might oft excite a laugh : "Who only liv'd to make his fellows weep ; And yet he sighs for pompous epitaph : — " The wicked's memory should — be ever light as chaff.** PRAYER. Father of Heaven! from whom all blessings flow; Who, thron'd in truth and justice, dwelPst on high; Whose ways, thy finite creatures ne'er can know; Father of Jife, and immortality: e2 52 Oh ! look with pity here, where Death has set His icy grasp ; a ray of comfort give ; Respite the anguish'd wretch a little yet ; Oh ! let him not, despairing, cease to live. Oh, Heavenly Father! for a moment stay Thy lifted arm, nor his contrition spurn : " The worm that dies not, bid it cease to prey ; Oh ! quench the fire, thou say est will ever burn !" In Mercy thou delightest — let it here Be shewn ; who seekest not the sinner's death, To his despairing prayer lend an ear, And make him not the object of thy wrath ! To sin and suffer, is thy creatures' lot ; Thou only canst assuage the pangs they feel ; Who* blotch'd with crime, their Maker have forgot ; But, if thou woundest, thou canst also heal. Lord, ere his doubting spirit leave his clay, Let him behold thee cloth'd in mercy bright, Cheer him with hope, of an eternal day, Where happy spirits dwell in endless light. ON THE DEATH OF AN AGED FRIEND, Who Departed this Life in consequence of a Melancholy Accident. O Death ! ye auld, blood-thirsty villain, Ne'er tir'd o' butchering an' killin* ; Grim king o' terrors, hail I Attention gi'e, a moment list, A little time will ne'er be miss'd, Sae aft ye wing your sail, Across that far-fam'd, fearfu' ferry, Upo' the River Styx ; Whare Charon does fock safely carry, Their future fate to fix — In-rare pleasure, without measure ; Or else in en'less pain, Wi' auld Nick, that auld stick, Wha laughs to hear them grane. Could ye nae fin' some ither wretch, Unto your gloomy den- to fetch — e 3 54 Frae whence nane e'er return'd-— But that auld, honest, canty wife, Whase memory I'll revere through life; Whase counsel I hae spurn'd ; Wha, wi* affection's kin'ly han' Wip'd afF my infant tear ; Wha never saw a sorrow dawn, But what she strove to cheer : But for a', she's awa, An', Death, ye war to blame, Thus for killin' ane sae willin', To mak' a' right aj hame, Ye might hae thrown that fearfu' dart, Wi' whilk ye broke her kin'ly heart, At some less worthy wife Than her, whase heart did ever beat Wi' true affection's lively heat, While she was in this life. Was there nae wretch, whase nightly prayer Whase mornin' orison, • 55 Was, " Free me frae a* warl'y care, O ! help me to begone?'' Wha wish'd ye, wad bless'd ye, To free him frae the moun* O' frail clay, that ilk day, Encompass'd him aroun' ? O! wantonly your dart you toss'd, An' mony a groan to her ye cost, Wha never caus'd a sigh, Ere she resign'd her aged life? An' fell in that unequal strife., In whilk we a* maun lie ; But now she's left this weary place, O' sorrow, grief an' care. An' ne'er again will fear thy face, O! never, never m air — Sae, adieu, I bid you, An', whan a fareweel visit You mak' me, to tak' me, Be canny an' ye please it. TO A FLEA, That had the curiosity to Visit the Inside of the Authors Ear, 1818. Foul fa' thee ! but thou'rt fu' o' greed, An', surely, o' an evil breed ; Thou plenty hadst, whereon to feed, Aneath my chin ; Thou mightst, at least, hae spair'd my head, Nor enter'd in, The passage o* communication 'Twixt men, whan in confabulation. O ! wert thou but in proper station — My nail o' tap — Thy bluid I'd spill, by my salvation, Faith, ilka drap! Foxes hae holes in whilk they hide, Birds, nests hae got, wherein to bide ; Ambitious thee! my back or side Might sair'd thee weel ; But, na ! thou wert sae fu* o' pride, Thou'dst higher spiel. 57 O! haste thee out, or I'll gang wudl A noise thou mak'st like roarin' flood ; Art thou in epicurean mood, Thou clim'st sae hie? The highest pasture's sweetest food, Though warst to pree. O! devil tak' thee! haste thee out; To pain eneugh thou hast me put; I think thou dost begin to doubt Thou'st tint thy way, Wi' backside foremost try a bout, An' seek for't sae. In far'er yet ! whare wadst thou be? Say, dost thou want my harns to see? Dost want to tell thy race, how we Engender thought, Or plans devise to torture gi'e, Whan ye are caught? Ha! hae I got thee finger fast? The awfu' fiat now is past, An' thou art doom'd to breathe thy last This vera hour; Depart thou, unto what thou wast. Be't clay or stour. 58 Mankin' a lesson, frae this flea, May tak' : — 'tis this, be wham they may, Beware o' curiosity ; Ne'er idly wish, Lest ruin meet them in the way, An' sud them crush. Let men, in low an' humble stations, Ne'er mak' ambitious aspirations, But, humbly, dwall in habitations, That suit their rank ; Nor brave life's sea, wi' expectations, On rotten plank. An' let them look before they loup ; An' dinna gie owre muckle scoup To fancy, whan she fashions houp, Wi' smilin' face? Lest they, in midst o' misery, coup, An' sad disgrace. Let reason ever, without fail, Owre curiosity prevail, Lest, like the hero o my tale, Insatiate, Their frien's sud hae to weep an' wail Their hapless fete. 59 Wlian hapless man, wi' luckless brain, To giddy fancy gi'es the rein, An' soars owre a' thy lovely plain — Imagination, An drinks, despisin' to restrain, The sweet potation. We needna ferly sair, gin he Intoxicated chance to be ; For, gin he hap owre far to flee, He'll fin', though late, There's something ca'd reality In man's estate. Ilk ane, in this life, has his share O' gude an' ill, some maybe mair; But, gin we only wad tak' care To keep the place Assign'd us, we might rin fu' fair Our waiTy race. i But, ah ! fehou fiend, misplac'd Ambition, How aft thou changest our condition ; In vain we look for a completion O' what we hope, But forward run— thy brink, Perdition, Can scarce us stop. ATTEMPTED VERSIFICATION Of Part of the Fifteenth Chapter of the Book of Exodus. We will sing to the Lord — he hath won us the fight; He hath conquer d our foes — let his glory shine bright- Our bonds now are broken, his people are free ; And the horse, and his rider* are sunk in the sea! The Lord is our strength, and the theme of our song— Our God, our salvation, who guards us from wrong. To the God of our fathers, a temple we'll raise, To exalt still his glories, his goodness to praise. The Lord is a mighty one, fearful in war — The Lord is his name, his might spreadeth afar. O'er the host of proud Pharoah the sea rolls its wave, And his chosen ones sleep, in a fathomless grave; The depths now are o'er them, their place is unknown — Like a stone, to the bottom the bravest is gone! 61 O! dreadful in power is the hand of thy might! Thou dashest in pieces, the bravest in fight ; In greatness thou shinest, in power above all ; At thy nod tyrants tremble, and mighty ones fall ; Thy wrath fleeth faster than flames on the wind, That leave not a trace, but destruction, behind ; Like stubble, thy foes were consum'd in thy sight, And clos'd are their eyelids, in death's gloomy night. The enemy, boasting, said, I will pursue, The spoil I'll divide, and their strength I'll subdue. — Thou didst blow with thy wind — ocean, proud to obey, Op'd its bosom, and hid them for ever from day. What god is like our God, whom all must obey, In glory, in honour, in power, or in sway, Doing wonders ? Abroad thou didst stretch thy right hand, And engulph'd in earth's bosom the proud of the land. In mercy thou didst thy own people set free; They were brought to thy holy place, guided by thee. The people shall hear, be afraid of thy power; F 62 And sorrow will sit in the Palestine bower; Amaz'd, Edom's Dukes shall thy wonders behold ; And the mighty in Moab will cease to be bold ! And, trembling with fear, Canaan's people shall melt ! For thy greatness and power, by them all will be felt. Thy people shall come to that mountain of thine, Where thou dwellest in might, and in glory dost shine Which thy hands have establish'd in holiness fast; Where thy reign shall continue for ever to last. The children of Israel thy power hath set free : And the horse, and the rider, are sunk in the sea. TO DISCONTENT. Hail, Discontent! thou source o' evil. That turn'd an angel to a devil ; O' human ills, the maist uncivil, That e'er I kent; :Baith rich an' puir thou mak'st to cavil, In life's short rent. 63 O! what a warl'! wad this hae been! Had we thy workin* never seen, Pure happiness, frae morn to e'en, Had been our lot;. But envy, malice, slander keen, Wi' thee were brought Engendered by the devil's seP, Brought forth in heaven, an' nurs'd in hell'; There thou, his offspring, mad'st him yell ;■ An' sae began His machinations, dour an' fell, To undo mam His first essay, was on our mither ; That might hae sair'd without anither, But brither syne he sat on brither, An' showed us death! Plung'd us in misery a' thegither, By thy curs'd breath ! Thou art the sad malignant spirit, Whilk human nature doth inherit; Thy subtle poison, a here share it, Thou bane o' life ! Nane to escape thee hae the merit, First cause o' strife \ j?2 u Frae yaumrin' childhood up to man, Thy arbitrary power we scan — We grieve for trifles first, an than Love, Wealth, Ambition, Fill np their place, sae weel dost plan Thy domination. Wha lives, that hasna felt thy power? The warst o' ills we here endure ; Disturber o' the social hour (— O ! but for thee, Our days might glide fu' happy owre, An peaceably. Tost on his couch, thy victim lies, An' spen's the wearynight in sighs ; An', like thy parent fiend, he fries Wi' inward strife; Thou breakst in twain the sweetest ties O' human life. That heavenly antidote, ca'd Hope, Alone can cheer us on to cope Wi' thee, as we through life do grope Our weary way, An* seldom lea's us till we drop Aneath the clay. 65 O Hope ! the hold that wretches take. Whan ye puir mortals' min's forsake ; How often, owre the Stygian lake, A jump they've ta'en^ An* en' to misery, care, to make, An* warly pain. But thou, Dread Power, that rul'st owre space, Wha didst create the human race, Let us thy image ne'er deface, But wait the time- We're ca d unto our restin' place, A happier clime. TO REFLECTION,. Occasioned by hearing a Friend deploring, the Miseries of Human Life, Reflection, O! thou heart-corroding .poweiy To those whose other days have been mispent ; Thou stern companion of the private hour— - What tortures by thee have I underwent! How many thousands from this world thou'stsent, E 3 m Of those, whose lives no retrospect could bear ! Yet, thou hast caus'd the sinner to repent ; The iron-hearted, caus'd to shed a tear, For ills which they have done, to those of humbler sphere. Alas ! how wavering is the human mind ! As prone to change, as is the wind that blows- It seeks for happiness, but does it find ? Though changing onward, as it onward goes. New obstacles arise and still oppose ; Change as it will, the meteor flies it still. O Instability ! thou source of woes — Capricious ruler of the human will ! To me thou'st been the cause of many, 01 many, an ill. Delusive dreams, in which I have indulg'd, And 'woke to find the lovely vision fled ; Again Reflection has to me divulg'd, That man by misery must still be led — Again my brain has been by fancy fed — 67 Again the structure, which I thought to raise, Hath fallen, and even to Hope I have been dead. Even Hope! — the prop, the guide, the lamp, whose rays Light on the weary one through life's precarious ways. How dark the path of life appears to me ! A dreary waste ! then, wherefore should I live ?— " Because it is the Eternal's firm decree, That none shall take that which they cannot give.** The weary way, then, onwards must I strive— ~ Perchance, kind fortune yet may smile on me — But, say, from fortune's smiles can we derive Content — ah ! with it oft dwells misery, Well as with those that dwell in wretched poverty. And yet, Reflection can its pleasures give ; Can soothe the soul, and ease the bursting heart ; Can bid the humble upright one to live, Who, in this world, has rightly play'd his part : For, from a retrospect, he need not start, Whose days have blameless been, who never strove With what was right, who never caus'd to smart The lowly, but the poor man's friend would prove, Whose breast was ever fill'd with philanthropic love* Then onward I will plod the weary way — Butj ah ! Reflection j thou will haunt me still; Companion of my thoughts by night and day, With ceaseless pangs thou canst the bosom fill* Though guiltless of premeditated ill — The phantom Folly I have oft pursued ; At pleasure's name I've felt my heart oft - thrill $-. And, to my bosom, oftimes have thee wooed, And trode thy rosy path, where hidden thorns are strewed. But why repine, when thousands well as I Are by Reflection haunted ?— But, ah ! drear, O'er youthful prospects, blasted, doom'd to sigh ! Shut from the world, and all that I hold dear. Reflection then may well command a tear — m " But sorrow never can recall the past ."— Then onward I must strive through life's career; And boldly meet misfortune's withering blast, In hopes to meet with thee, O Happiness ! at last. THE SCAVENGER, A FACT. Hail, Poverty ! staunch friend I cannot say — Thou art like summer fly, that quits the flower, Upon the sweets of which it used to prey, When basking in the sun's meridian power, When all its sap is gone: — for many a day Thou hast been mine, and art so at this hour ; Like brothers we have journeyed on through life, Cleaving as close as — husband cleaves to wife. One day, while walking through our busy town, A dust-cart, passing, daub'd me in the street ; ?0 I at the Scavenger began to frown, While, from his wrinkled brow, ran down the sweat- He rested on his broom, his eyes cast down, A moment 'twas for reverie quite meet — Scarce knowing why — I spoke unto the man, And ask'd his story, when he thus began— Since e'er I knew what hunger was, or cold, I've suffer'd both, my parents were so poor ; They died ere they were counted very old, Left me an orphan, with no friendly door Open to take me in : so I was sold, Or bound— 'tis all the same — but, from that hoar, I've had no dog's life : it is rather rarish To live at ease apprentic'd by the parish* Well, spite of hunger, stripes, I grew a man ; And, for a sailor, to the sea did go ; 'Twas not ambition bade me try that plan* Nor to defend my country 'gainst the foe ; 71 But as I could not get the world began, I was so shiftless, and my purse so low, And not a single soul to lend a hand To push me on — why, I push'd off from land. But fortune was as blind at sea's on shore — • If I had merit, it was never seen ; And, after fighting much, and sailing more, On board a man- of-war, for years thirteen, Peace came— 1 found myself just as before, Ashore, and houseless, and not worth a pin, An arm half useless, and my eyesight marr'd — For all my services, the sole reward. And since that time, Heaven knows, 1 have not slept On roses ; now my hair is turning grey, For old age, o'er my wither'd frame, has crept, And, very soon, I'll rest me in the clay. And, for a livelihood, the streets I've swept Some years — but now, I feel my strength decay ; 72 And soon, alas! I'll have to give it o'er, Then, friendless, I may beg from door to door. The old man grasp'd his broom, and slunk among The motley group ; I gave him all I had — 'Twas pity — while emotion, biting strong, Struggl'd to vent itself; my heart was sad. And, leaving him, I trudg'd the path along, Blessing my stars, my lot was not so bad As poverty could make it. — Contemplation Is oft the source of human consolation. TO BOMBr. J. S. F , teh Battn. i?. A. I thank ye, frien', for your advice ; I hae nae doubt but what you're wise, An' practice to your theory splice : But, by my saul, I think you're turnin' far owre nice, As ye grow aul'. 73 As for mysel', this far I'll say, An' stick to it by yea an' nay, I'll e'en to heaven gang my am way, Be't right or wrang, In spite o' what ye preach an' pray — That's short an' lang* Some fock hae harns, some are without- — You, surely, winna that dispute — That sma's my share, there's nane will doubt "Wha does me knaw ; But, then, to class me wi' a b — te, Is waur than a'. This warl's a place we sune maun lea' — But little care that mak's to me — Sae, a' the pleasure it can gi'e, An' we can get, Sud aye be seiz'd fu' eagerly, Where'er 'tis met. My heart's fu' light, my bluid's fu' warm ; In yill an' whisky there's a charm ; An', lang as I can raise an arm, An' saxpence tell, I'll never think it ony harm To touch the bell. G Poortith my spirits ne'er can cow; I'll drink as lang as e'er I dow ; Still takin' care ne'er to get fou, But half an' half: What care I for the warl's bow-wow, Its scoff, or laugh ? Though ye despise the joys o' drinkin', An* hate to hear the stcupy clinkin', To ither sensual joys, I'm thinkin', You're somewhat prone- Bewaur the flesh! the warl's nae winkin', But lookin' on. The wisest men the warl e'er knew — Some hae been wiser far than you — At antrin times, hae got them fou, An' down wud syne Their care, wi' yill, or mountain dew, Or, ablins, wine. The doctor, boasted for his skin, Potations tak's, wi' right gude will ; His head, wi' Latin terms, he'll fill, An' scraps o' Greek — Sangrado-like he'll forth an' kill, Ilk day o' the week. Priests, statesmen, scholars, an' physicians, Fish-wives, an' generals, politicians, Orators, poets, an' musicians, An' kings an' a', Hae a' been kent to tak' repletions, Care aff to caw. O Care! puir mankin's ruthless fae, Source o' reflection, king o' wae : Ye ken his likeness, Mr. G , Wha'd Wilkie start To draw his likeness, any day, For a' his art. His legs will scarcely fill a stockin', Made for a bairn in cradle rockin', Focks wunner much are na they broken Wi' some o's races ; A cough he has that keeps him bockin', An' makin' faces. Heaven gifted him wi' mony pence ; But sairly scrimpit him o' sense, That little gude he gets o't ; hence, I may presume, His pleasures scarce wad been mair dense, Wi' pouches toom, g2 76 Shame on the wretch's iron heart, Wha sees the tear o $ poortith start, Yet frae his plenty winna part A single coin, Though nature pleads, wi' a' her art, Him to incline. Still trembling o'er his gowden hoard, By every generous heart abhorr'd ; Though he o' thousands be the lord, How little bliss, The countin' o't, can him afford, In warl like this. Some prudent focks are like the devil, They can rejoice in ithers' evil ; Whan neibors sorrow, they can revel In their mishap ; An' push them down below their level Anither stap. Yet, Man! even Man! born o' a woman, Wha tyrants wad to death be doomin' Though at oppression he be fumin', An' wrath express. His turn ance come, he'll tine his gioomin', An' syne oppress. 77 But think na, frien', that I despise That prudence, ye sae muckle prize ; Or, 'gainst the open truth, my eyes Wad seek to seal ; That folly will on folly rise, I ken fu' weel. But, there are some, wha canna see Self's sin or immorality ; Yet, gainst a sinner, sic as me, In wrath will raise Their tongues, gin pleasure I sud pree, Or meet its gaze. Fareweel, an' may ye always shun The path ye hate, while 'boon the grun, Be in the right road ever foun', The narrow way That leads to warls, whaur shines the sun In en'less day. g3 LINES, Written as a Valentine to a Lady, from ivhom a Gentleman had received a Letter, in which she said she had dreamed of him. Hast thou, while under Somno's power, Talk'd to my unsubstantial shade? I've thought on thee in pleasure's hour, When sorrow lower 'd, when grief has prey'd; When I in care and suiF'rin Wi' pny genial ray. 96 For, ah ! the selfish heart's emboss'd, An' borni* in a perpetual frost ; E'en misery, passin' by, Fails to dissolve the sma'est part, That aft encrusts the human heart, Can scarce extort a sigh ; They've only learn'd for that to feel, Whilk does themselV concern ; 'Gainst pity's claim, their hearts are steel, Kae sufferin' mak's them yearn ; An' the road, by them trod e, Is mark'd — look straight before, An* glance not, askance not, At misery, or her corps. Dissimulation, usefu art, Anealh whase vail, an achin* heart Is vera aften hid ; Wha lives, that can wi* thee dispense? We might as weel lack wit, or sense, 97 Or ony ither gude : Whan cares, an' sorrows, thickly come, Thou rnak'st the face look cheery; An* pleas'd, like blinks, the e'en o' some, Whase hearts are sad an* dreary : Then, to thee, let them gi"e, At least, the meed o' praise, For cheerin', an' clearing The face, wliaur dwall sud waes. Some bards are independent men, An* weel, the war? that does ken, Though ne'er by Fortune favour d ; Wha ne'er wad crouch to high, or low, Nor, servilely, to patrons bow, But manfully endeavour'd Their independence still to show, Throughout the lease o* life : But there are ither some, we know. Whan siller is na rife, 98 Wad bow down, maist low down, For pension, or for place ; An' draw back, ilk auld crack, An' sae themsel's disgrace. Siller's, nae doubt, a temptin' thing — Aft, has it made the poet sing; 'Twill inspiration rouse, Far faster than Parnassian dame, Let love, or glory, be the theme, Or satire, or abuse; Frien'ship, reflection, hae been yet The only themes o' mine : Whan wi' the warl', mysel', I fret, Out crawls the heavy line — Sae I, Sir, but try, Sir, Cauld care to drive awa, Unheedin', nor dreadin', The critic, or his law. 99 Yet, notwithstanding a' I've said, I somehow like the rhyming trade — It mak's lang hours, seem short ; An', whan the time hangs heavily on My han's, I'm fain to blaw my drone, For lack o' better sport. Monotonous, an' dull's the roun*, In whilk my life I pass ; Wi' kindred sauls I've nae commune : But, something like an Ass, I creep through, an' sleep throughj The weary nights, an* days, Regrettin', an' frettin', An' porin' owre my waes. 12 FAREWELL IMITATORY EPISTLE, To an Old Friend with a New Face. And. ah! is Friendship but a name ! And burns it with so weak a flame, That slander's tongue those bonds can sever, Which once we thought would bind for ever ? Can you forego, without a sigh, That Friendship which you lov'd to try ? And o'er its ruin smiling sit, Nor hope to be remember'd yet ? "Will busy Memory's office cease, And let ye calmly live at peace ? Nor crave one retrospective look For him you lov'd. deceiv'd, forsook : Oh ! do not think that Friendship, love, Are worn, as caprice wears her glove j Regret may tinge some later day, When passion, sated, flies away. Glasgow, of August 'tis now the twelfth day, The year, eighteen hundred and twenty-one — Dear , friend that was — that is, I say; 'Twas on that day, this letter was begun, And ended. — What of all this? — Why,, the way Of life is not, at all times, smoothly run ; But is so sinuous, Sir, .and strangely bended, Men have begun right oft, what they ne'er ended. 101 Adieu, our interchange of thought is o'er — At least, I really think so— for a season : And thou, perchance of me, wilt hear no more : But, why? — I need not tell to thee the reason: And yet, I never thought of this before — Thou'lt think it strange, and little short of treason 'Gainst Friendship ; but — no matter, it is past; And this, Sir, for the present, is the last. Adieu, and be thou happy in the love Of those that love thee; love is worth possessing, If it be pure — but that comes from above : Ah! earthly love is but a transient blessing: — All this I know, and thou may'st one day prove This, when thou'rt tir'd of hugging and of kissing ; For kissing, somehow, is a dangerous thing ; Pleasure is sweet, but pleasure has — a sting. Pleasure's a pinnacle, on which men stand ; The ascent is easy, the descent perplexing; 1 3 102 In mounting, many kindly lend a hand ; Then kindly— push them down:— 'tis somewhat vexing, But no less true; besides, on every strand We know, or e'er was known, there have been wrecks on Of ships, that gaily sail'd for pleasure's port, Yet, ere they made it, have been wreck'd.— In short- Adieu — these little words have a sad sound ; And yet, 'tis strange, for both of them are French ones: I've felt myself, they could the bosom wound, As if they seem'd, most painfully to wrench one's Heart from its place ; I've seen the house go round ; I've felt my eyes grow dim ; but then to stanch one's Tears, and to give to sorrow some relief, An excellent thing's a— pocket-handkerchief. 1 said the words were French. — Well, what of that? French folks their sorrows have, as well as we; I'll prove, at parting they look much more fiat, And doleful, Sir, than thou dost— aye, or— me: 103 For Frenchmen weep, embrace, kiss, doff the hat, Scrape, and occasionally bend the knee ; And this we've seen — for we to France went o'er, When great Napoleon was an Emperor ! ! \ But now, those days are o'er ; no more will he Spread out his glittering eagles to the sun ; No more, will hear the shout of victory. Some folks would fainly end, what he begun ; Restore the days of pristine slavery : But man must breathe, alas! if he would run : But he, asleep in rock girt by the ocean, Of their proceedings^ has not the least notion. The world, ere now, has trembled at his nod: But now, the world for him does nothing care: And 'tis wilPd by the Almighty God, Who rules the earth, the water, and the air. All his detractors will find an abode, As dark and lonely; and leave nought to bear 104 Their names, like his, to late posterity ; Though they his memory treat, with such asperity. And many a laurel, deck'd his princely brow, CulPd, by himself, from midst of death and glory. If despot he, low he made despots bow; Who now seem, quite to have forgot the story* His sun has set; his crest has fallen, how low \ His death-bed one of peace: had it been gory, Or had he perish'd, in the storm he rais'd, He would have been, by poets much more prais'd ! Low in the dust he lies : fit lesson for The proud philosopher, the callous stoic. With genuine fortitude his end he bore ; Exceeding all displays of the heroic, Were ever made by Black, or White, before^ Who've rush'd unbid on death, with scarce a yoic* * A term Sportsmen use to encourage dogs in the pursuit. See MachlirCs Love a-fa-Modc. 105 He, with his angry hunters, stood at bay ; Daring to live! yet— died before his day. His crime was dire Ambition : the same sin That shook the mighty theatre of Heaven, And peopled Hell; where Hope ne'er enters in, To cheer the soul, that's o'er its threshold driven, Ah.! hapless man! how hard it is to win A conquest, o'er those passions to thee given ; As may be prov'd by many a story's sequel:— Man, like the Devil* scarce can brook an— equal. Adieu, no more I'll serve his Majesty ; The nation is at peace, and there's no fun ; But, should a war break out, perhaps I'll be Induc'd to ask him, to restore my gun ; For, once again, I'd like to cross the sea ; Through Italy and Germany to run ; And though— I would not care to visit Prussia; By all my hopes, I hate the thoughts of Russia! 106 A soldier's life's, a very merry life, Occasionally : so is every one's. And cheering, is the sound of drum and fife At — dinner-time: so's the report of guns At a Review — for then there is no strife; And, pleas'd to see it, every body runs : 'Tis quite a different thing the foe in view. So are drums to soldiers, at — Parade, Tattoo. The Q n is dead ! I hope she is in Heaven ; Folks say, 'tis better to be there, than here ; Her path below, was neither smooth nor even : Think'st thou, her memory will extract a tear? The Greeks to desperation, too, are driven ; And scowling Russia frowns on the frontier Of Turkey ; no doubt he would fain march on The city, that begins its name with — Con. — Now, by the sweetest smile, that ever lover « Did, from a mistress' lovely face, elicit* 107 I swear ! — I wish success, at last, may hover Around the Greeks, until quantum siifficit The Turks have got : and, when the war is over, Thou know'st I always love, to be explicit, I hope to hear, and few will think it loss. That the proud Crescent's prostrate, at the Cross ! Indeed, I think, the pretty Turkish ladies, Will hail, with joy, the trumpets' loud alarum ; As much as labourers, who rejoice on pay-days ; Or an elector — Where, Sir ? — At Old Sarum — At polling time; for there, thou know'st, his trade is To exercise his freedom : in a Harem, There's no occasion for such vulgar work ; Which shows the great refinement of a — Turk. Adieu, Old ■ 's now turn'd orator ; And I have heard him tell such wondrous thing*, For oft he condescends, to play the narrator, Of the decline of Empires, Priests, andKings; 108 And nature kind, made him inheritor Of gifts, he oft, unto some purpose, brings Forward : and then, his manner is so civil, He soon can strip all terror from the — Devil. He has that mild, insinuating, way, That from the unwary, self possession takes : He brings imagination into play, And calls it reason ; but it oft partakes Of the unstable nature of the stay, Given to a traveller's footsteps, when the flakes Of snow, in winter, make a ditch a road ; He tumbles in, and then — he thinks it odd. He used to go to church ; and did believe, He was a pilgrim in the righteous' way : But then, Ambition may the best deceive, He loving much to live disputingly; And, for a losing soul, he once did grieve, Went to convert him, or at least to pray ; 109 But the intended proselyte, all at once, Prov'd the kind missionary, quite a — dunce. Astonished at the eloquence he heard, From sources drawn, he ne'er thought on before; And, thinking every glory might be shar'd, He ponder'd well the matter, o'er and o'er — Grasp'd Voltaire's waist, seiz'd Volney by the beard, O'er Hume, and Gibbon sigh'd— his heart was sore ; He would have told his sorrows ; ere he durst, He thought, he would read Prussian Frederick first. Now, one of Reason's sons, unfetter'd free From all restraint; he trumpets, night and day, For Rights of Man, Reform, and Liberty; Curses the narrow minds, that have the sway, And o'er them wishes for a victory : But, in his own eye, lets the mote still stay — His household rules with iron, worthy knave! His children Drudges, and his wife a- S3ave> no Adieu, once more, I'll sometimes think on thee- For memory loves to linger, on the past : Though rolls between us now, the mighty sea ; Upon whose shores, we've listen'd to the blast Of winter, howling wild and drearily ; Though, on a distant shore, my lot be cast ; Time, wind, a vessel, and a skilful crew, Might bring us yet together.— Sir, adieu. ADDRESS, To the Woolwich Caledonian Society, Instituted Jar the relief of Indigent Scotsmen, Bead hj the President at their Annual Meeting, St. Andrews Day, November, 1821. Sons o' the Ian o' hill, an* heather, Whane'er ye chance to meet thegithcr, Be ever boun' in frien'ship's tether ; Wisdom preside At a' your councils — Discord wither, An' Envy hide. Ill Your native hills, frae east to wast, Defen* your Ian' frae mony a blast : An' ye, like them, hae kin'ly cast The shelterin' arm Aroun, to shield the wanderer, past Cauld poortith's harm. An', like those Alpine heights, may you Stan' on a basis firm an' true, Immoveable ; an* bring to view Auld Scotia's glore— * The Thistle ! moist wi' Pity's dew, On distant shore, Aft has the Thistle shone afar, Wi' rugged front, in horrid war ; In peace, oh! let it shine a star, To light the path O' stranger feet, an' ever mar The han' o' wrath. Cauld are auld Scotia's hills, I ween, Whaur winter's snaw's in simmer seen ; But hidden fire may burn within Their Alpine breasts, Though never shawn to mortal een, The place it rests, &2 112 Though, like your hills, your outward frame; Within, there burns the generous flame, That shaws the heart is aye at hame, In time o' need, At pity's call, at misery's claim, In word an' deed. Hail, Independence! Scotia's boast, Earn'd by the bluid o' mony a host; Deeds o' the mighty, never lost, Enshrin'd for ever ; An', in thy children's hearts, emboss'd, To leave them never. Hail, Land o' Freedom ! ever free Beats, on thy dusky cliffs, the sea; An*, as they backward mak' it flee, Sae flee thy faes, Before the cherish'd liberty O' earlier days. As rivers in their channels run, An' seldom change the course begun, But, forward rushin', keep their grun, Wi' constant flow Sae downward flee, frae son to son, The patriot glow. 113 Oh ! may ye aften change the cry O' misery, to the sang o' joy ; An* upward flee the gratefu' sigh, Blessin's to bring On you, an' your benign employ, Woe lessening. The widow's sigh, the orphan's tear, Aft may ye stap, an' aften cheer The wanderer, whan beset wi' fear, An* lone distress, While journeyin' through this lonely, drear, Sad wilderness. An' may ye never hap to feel The waes, your kindness strives, to heal ; But, gin ye sud, the guardian shiel O' Heaven defend ye ; An' unsought blessin's ever steal On, an' attend ye. Gin there's a god-like gift e'er given To us on earth, frae Him in heaven, 'Tis that whilk cheers the heart that's riven, Wi' care an' grie£ That saves the wretch to misery driven, An' brings relief, 114< May Scotia's sang, an' Scotia's tale, To cheer your meetin's, never fail : Heaven bless your hearts, an' keep them hale, For mony a day ; An', frae your coffins, keep the nail, That puts them tae. Pleasure attend your social hours ; An' Concord strew her sweetest flowers ; An' Peace, an' a' the heavenly powers, Amang ye reign ; Until ye reach the happy bowers, Yont reach o' pain : Whaur misery enters not, an* sorrow Ne'er needs a heartless smile to borrow ; Whaur nae ane trembles for the morrow ; An' never tear, The cheek o' auld or young, will furrow, Nor aught can fear. FIRST CANTO OF A. TALE, CALLED ARNOLD. Nevek more will love delight thee, Misery never can afright thee ; Hope and fear alike have flown, And fickle friendship ne'er can slight thee : Life's a sea of care and woe, And, if we pleasure should discover, The bosom scarce has felt its glow, Till, wing'd on pain, it plays the rover. Ye Maids of Helicon, oft wooed in vain, Whose mighty influence, known is, far and near ; Oh ! listen to the humblest of the train That, in your well-fill'd ranks, did e'er appear : Frown not on him, in majesty severe, Who'd bring an humble offering to your shrine ; He seeketh not to move soft pity's tear, Though he Parnassus-ward would fain incline, And in that sunshine bask, whose rays are all divine. The sun shines brightly o'er thy fertile plains, Proud Salop : but, ah ! gloomy was the day 116 When rude oppression, stretch'd her iron chains O'er one of thy best manors, once so gay ; Where, to the violin's enlivening play, The sons and daughters of the rustic cot, In summer evenings, danc'd the time away— And little envied in this world, I wot, But thankful were to heaven* that bless'd them in this spot. But, to be happy, is not to be blest ; With all that nature craves, there's something more ; Else they might still have been the happiest That ever dwelt upon the Severn shore : And there, their fathers dwelt in days of yore, Ruled by a name they loved — yea, much revered; But now 'tis lost* another lords it o'er The place where Arnold's name had long been reared, Had long been bless'd, had long the village cheered. O Dissipation ! ruin stalks around Thy shadowy path ; thy reckless followers still 117 Are blind to reason, and resign the ground Of judgement, solid, to imperious will : Else Arnold's house would never yet known ill, Nor forc'd had been to quit its native vale; Nor mourning peasants' eyes been seen to fill With tears, as they'd relate the luckless tale, And, to the listener, make the sad and sorrowing wail. Once Arnold's turrets frowned upon the storm, Laugh'd as the hollow blasts would grumbling flee ; Oft Arnold's fires have blaz'd the guest to warm, Who, welcome, shar'd his hospitality — Now, neither turret, fire, nor guest, has he, Nor sumptuous board with luscious viands grac'd, Nor smiles benign on him, the sated e'e, That, complaisantly, glutted in his waste, No anxious fawner strives to compliment his taste. The young, the gay, have grac'd his lordly halls; Oft have the fairest forms his couches press'd ; 118 The sweetest sounds have echoed through his walls, As yet the village story can attest : Now, no one heeds where Arnold takes his rest; And not a form desires to press his bed ; No sleek dependent smiles, in riot blest ; No prayers are made for blessings on his head : Yet, not a sigh escapes, nor is a murmur made. — He sighs not — not a sigh ascends for him ; He weeps not — not a tear for him is flowing : But, « still and peaceful" does his dwelling seem ; And many a wild flower, there is sweetly growing \ The setting sun, his golden tints when throwing, Salutes his lowly home as heretofore, His airy turrets unto mankind showing : — He loves to gild the humble cottage door, As well's the stately dome— that high in air doth soar. And who will say, that nature ever deign'd To deal her bounties with a partial hand? 119 'Tis man alone, who has her volume stained, Has shut the page, that did to all expand : Alike — her blessings unto every land She freely gave, as fall the dews from heaven ; But, selfish, he usurp'd her high command, Seiz'd for himself, what was for others given ; — Then err'd the mighty Beam, that erst was fair and even, And, the united strength of man, can never Restore the balance to that ponderous Beam.— Vain speculation ! let it rest for ever ; Though specious the attempt, to some may seem, As easily might a mortal arm, the stream At Niagara's fall, with force repel, Unseat Mount Atlas, veil the solar gleam, Or stay the hand of Death, or smooth the swell Of Ocean, when the storms of winter loudly yell. i And onward rushing, to the end of time, The great preponderance will still encrease; 120 For Avarice still will grasp, Ambition climb, Folly, and Selfishness, will never cease : Those fruitful causes of the world's dispeace, Immutably, have fix'd us in their thrall : Thus rose, and fell, the states of Rome, and Greece; Kingdoms, and Empires yet will rise, and fall, And Man will still be — Man — the would-be Lord of all ! Richakd, a man of firm, but gentle, mind, Had been a soldier in his younger days, Who, worn with war, the musket bad resign'd ; Had earn'd, with others, his lov'd country's prake : — Poor compensation ! like the passing gaze Of toil'd mechanic, at some public shew, 'Tis past, and soon 'tis lost amid the maze Of other objects savouring more of new; — Gift easily bestow'd — but hardly earn'd, I trow. And he had pass'd his better days in arms ; With pension bless'd, return'd with alter'd face, 12 1 To where he thought a refuge from all harms, And which he meant, should be his resting place; Which other objects never could efface, Though he had roam'd through places far, and near ; For oft his youthful pleasures he'd retrace, And many a time, I wot, the unbidden tear Would start— and, trickling, would his bosom cheer. Still hale and active, he could ably toil ; And oft, when snugly seated in his chair, He would the weary winter night beguile, WheijL hard- wrought peasants sought relief from care; For there, with half-op'd mouth, and vacant stare, They'd listen to the tales of human strife ; And some, were thankful they had not been there, While others envied much, a soldier's life, And peasant girl might sigh, to be a soldier's wife. Thus Richard liv'd, beiov'd by old and young, The village oracle he was esteemed ; 189 Now, o'er his grave, the winter winds have sung, And summer suns, have on its verdure beam'd: O Death ! unpitying creditor still deem'd, No thriftless bankrupt stands in thy gazette; Thou fail'st not at thy day, nor ever seem'd Forgetful of that dread, that awful, debt, Thou claim'st from each, from all, at which we vainly fret. 'Twas Richard told the tale, and many a sigh, The sad recital from his bosom drew; And falter'd oft his voice, most piteously, As faithful memory, to his mental view, Pictur'd the happy days, that Arnold knew, Ere pleasure lur'd him onward to embrace Ruin : — he sigh'd, to think the tale was true; And told it with such sad, such moving, grace, While many a tear bedew'd, his venerable face. Young Arnold's mother died, ere he could say A mother's name, and he could never tell 123 A mother's Jove — while watching o'er the day Of earlier years — the years we love so well To dream of, ere the heart's impassion'd swell Plunge us in pleasure sweet, but ah ! how fleeting ! Ere virtue vanish from the fragile ceil She hath in human bosoms, oft repeating Farewell — we wish her stay, yet stop not her retreating. Ere Arnold reach'd his one-and-twentieth year, His father slumber'd in the silent tomb ; Then kind was fortune's smiles, and sweet the cheer Of friends, all anxious to remove his gloom; And, on his youthful cheek, was seen the bloom Of health and beauty, and his manly form Press'd proudly on the earth : but soon his doom Laid him beneath it — reft of every charm, Like to some blasted tree, when roars the thunder-storm, And then his lands extended far and wide, And rich was Arnold deem'd both far and near^ l2 1U Last of a noble race, soon doom'd to glide Into oblivion— short is the career Of vice and folly — but the hapless tear Of dark remorse, may dim the eye fop ever ; For memory, like a spectre, still will rear The dreadful front we hate, and never, never, Can man forget the day he did from virtue sever. His native place was soon forsook by him, And forth he went for pleasure wandering; And lightly sail'd he down that lovely stream, That, in a thousand ways meandering, Seemeth to have no end ; thus man will fling Care from his breast, and never dream of troubh Oh ! 'tis a pleasant time of life, the spring ! Pity, when harvest comes> if nought but stubble Remain to reap! — we sigh, when breaks the airy bubble* For pleasure is the aim of all our days, The cause of all we hope, of all we fear, The sinner sins for't, and the saint— he prays., So varied are the forms we see it wear : Pleasure's the honey'd land, for which we steer ; Hope is the balmy gale, that wafts us on ; But, ere we reach it, oft the gale may veer, Or, driven beyond the port, the land is gone, Ne'er to be made again— then all is sad, and lone. EPITAPHS. On a Soldier who died in his bed. What, though no laurel deck'd the brow Of him, who lieth here below, Believe it — he was brave : And gain'd, at last, as much as those, Who have oppos'd a host of foes ; And more than some, a — grave. On Bonaparte. Here, in this little lonely spot* is laid The dust of one, who kings and princes made : Strange the reverse of fortune, here must seem- Princes and kings, at last, have — unmade him. L 3 126 For a Quack Doctor. Beneath this monnd, a body lies, Once • by name; Who boasted he would never rise, Thus glorying in his shame! A useless, drunken wretch he was, By beastly passions driven ; He liv'd an ideot, died an ass, Unfit for H— 1 or H n. On an Itinerant Poet. Here n has got bis journeys o'er, And feels that ease, he never knew before; No painful care obtrudes upon his rest; No sad foreboding fills his quiet breast ; No dreaded morrow wakes him from his bed, To wring from sneering ignorance his bread : Snug as a monarch, in the earth he lies, And, with a monarch's dearest hope, he'll rise. 127 SONGS. Tune — Roy's Wife. Whan the mind is sad and dreary, Whan the mind is sad and dreary, How hard to deck the face wi' smiles ? Or e'en to look as we were cheery ? Oh ! Pleasure's but a gilded dream, An* aft we wauk to care an' sorrow ; Yet, wha wad e'er in sadness seem, An' could the face o' gladness borrow? Though mony a time we pleasure see, In beauty's e'e, fit' sweetly blinking Whan seems the mind o' sorrow free— 'Twas but a moment tint o' thinkin'. Joy aft may sit on beauty's cheek, The brow wi' care may seem unclouded; But, ah I the heart's the place to seek- There grief, alas! is aften shrouded. Tune — Kenmure's on an 9 awa. Thy heart is cauld as the snaw, lassie, Thy heart is cauld as the snaw, That covers the hue, o' the mountain's brow, Whaur sun can never thaw. 128 I hae lo'ed thee Jang and true, lassie, I hae lo'ed thee lang an' true ; Thy lovely form now lacks the charm, I did sae fondly view. Though thy form be lovely an' fair, lassie, Though thy form be lovely an' fair ; An' thy bosom white ; both fail to delight i Sae cauld is the heart that lies there. Though bonnie's the^ blink o* thine e'e, lassie, Though bonnie's the blink o* thine e'e ; It fails now to move, my bosom to love ; Sae cauldly it looks upon me. Adieu, I'll some ither maid seek, lassie, Adieu, I'll some ither maid seek. — He turn'd to gae Va, on his breast she did fa', An' pale turn'd the rose o' her cheek. How he look'd as he hung o'er his dear lassie! How he look'd as he hung o'er his dear! How pleasant the pang, his heart shot alang, As he kiss'd aff aifection's sweet tear. 129 SONG. The sun of to-morrow, may gild my low grave, The evening dew moisten the sod ; Tar, far, from my native land, girt by the wave, Will then be my lowly abode. To the scenes of my youth, will my dying thoughts turn- The spot where my fathers lie sleeping ; And, in fancy, I'll hear the dull village bell mourn, And list to my bosom friends weeping. O Memory ! how dearly the scenes that are gone Dost thou paint, to remind us they're past ! The moments of happiness that we have known, Though we know that they never could last ! But, hark! 'tis the battle-sound calls to the fight- Now the knell of the mighty is ringing — And the Angel of Death waits, with gloomy delight, For the dirges that soon will be singing. Tune — My love is like the red red rose* The flowers that deck'd my bridal bed, Lie withering in the tombj And loathsome the once fragrant rose, That did so sweetly bloom. ISO The form I did so fondly love, From me's for ever flown ; And moulders in the arms of death, What lately blest my own. What lately blest my own, alas! &c. Ah! who would leave the bridal bed, To seek the lonely grave; Or court the cold embrace of Death, And could a lover's have ? Oh ! Fate, with unrelenting hand, Did all my bliss destroy ; And, in a moment, stole an age Of peace, and banish'd joy. Of peace, and banish'd joy, alas I &e. Tune — Maid oflslay. Night has stown the day frae heavenj Sunk the sun in ocean deep, Like oursel's, by labour riven, Daunrin' hame to tak' a sleep ; * This Song is founded on the following very recent occurrence :— 1 Young Lady, on the night of her marriage, was taken ill, and, two daj afterwards, slept the sleep of death. 131 On his Thetis' dewy bosom, Ilka night he gangs to rest : Whaur can lover sae repose him ? Whaur be half sae truly blest. Happit in night's dusky mantle, Now the moon unveils her face ; Kissin* hills an' dales a hantle, Rinnin' mony a sil'er race ; Wi' a thousan' shadows sporting Through the lift she sails fu' braw; Thousan' stars her train supporting Queen o' heaven, she shines awa. Come, my Mary, let us wander ; Zephyrs saftly fan the trees; Sweetly does the Clyde meander, Ripplin' to the kissin' breeze: Nights like this, are nights o' pleasure ; Let's enjoy them, ere they flee : Labour's sons are now at leisure; Nature kindly bids us pree. 1S2 THE SOLDIER'S GRAVE. The soldier sleeps in a hero's grave, And 'tis deck'd like a hero's tomb, For there the rank weeds darkly wave, And the wild flowers gaily bloom : But his memory dies, like a strain that flows Right sweetly over the ear ; For the lustre glory around him throws, Deprives his shade of a tear. But glory never can heal a wound, Nor will it efface a scar, Nor lighten the lonely midnight round, Nor sweeten the horrors of war ; And glory cannot soften the clay, Nor cover him up from the blast, When pillow'd beneath the lunar ray, He slumbers and dreams of the past. SONG. Ah! that beauty decays, as the breeze that conveys. The scent of the flowers in a summer noon ! Or that Pleasure flies, like clouds in the skies, That obscure with their light the silvery moon. I 133 We feel they are sweet, but, alas ! they are fleet, As the moments we pass, with the one we love best ; The glimpses we steal, but cause us to feel, How transient the blessings, of which we're possessd. The season of youth, is pleasant in truth, When Hope's airy visions the scenes do illume ; Ere faithless we prove the friends whom we love; Ere lingering we sigh over Fancy's lone tomb; When the dreams of the night, seldom fail to delight, And the visions of morning aye pleasure can bring : But, Beauty, and Pleasure, and Youth's balmy treasure Evanish, and nought oft remains but a sting. Tune — My lodging is on the cold ground. Are Friendship and Love, like a sweet fleeting dream, From which we awake to despair? Through the dark clouds of sorrow, will joy never gleam ? When the morning of Hope look'd so fair ; When I told thee I lov'd, how thou whisper'd belief, While a smile, o'er thy beautiful face, Insidiously stole, like the well-polish'd thief, Who deludes but to rob with more grace. M 134 Ah! is Love like the shadow that flits with the ray Of the sun, should a cloud intervene? Or Friendship as transient as breezes that play O'er the lake, when the evening's serene ? Or Hope like the meteor that lures to despair, The wanderer that strolls o'er the heath, Still cheer'd, or depress'd, as he follows with care The delusion, that sinks hini in death. Tune — Days o' Langsyne. Adieu, native land, soon the wide stormy sea, Will heave its dark bosom between you and me ; Soon the land of my fathers, will fade from my view, And nought will remain, but remembrance of you : Yet, homeward my thoughts will for ever incline, While memory unfoldeth the page of Langsyne. O, ye scenes ! where IVe sported, ere reason began To unveil, with its opening, the miseries of Man; Ere sorrow had lower'd upon life's sunny morn, Or a sigh had escap'd for what ne'er could return : Other scenes now, alas! must for ever be mine, But never can charm, like the scenes of Langsyne. 135 Ye friends, whom I love, that I now bid adieu, Nought e'er can efface the remembrance of you : Though far from the bosom, in which did repose The height of my pleasures, the depth of my woes, Still memory, like ivy, will fondly entwine Round the prop, that it lov'd in the days of Langsyne. Tune — My lodging is on the cold ground. When on Hope's giddy wings, in the season of youth, We are borne, how the hours glide away! Softly lull'd by her melodies, ne'er wake to truth, "While the Syren continues to play. And woeful the bosom those strains fail to please — Oh ! never, Love, may it be thine, Nor chill disappointment, that tenderness freeze, That falls, like a dew-drop, on mine. Though Hope, for a season, the bosom may leave, Yet, believe me, Love, she will return, Though it be but to tell her fond tale, and deceive, And again leave the listener to mourn. And pleasant the tale is we love to hear told, Sweetly lingers the sound on the ear, M 2 136 As the maid's parting words do, when long years have roll'd, On the lover's, to whom she is dear. Every one is a Dandy. Come, listen to my song, it will not keep you long, As 'bout every thing I like to be handy, O, As brevity's the soul of wit, so your fancies I will hit, If I can, and then, you know, 'twill be the dandy, O. Thus, our stylish Beau, so smart, can tickle you a heart, When for conquest he is dress'd, and looks so handy, O, With oil'd pericranium, and a modish ha, and hum, And a chapeau on his tete, al-a-mode, Dandy, O. The sweet romantic Miss, has reach'd the summit of her bliss. If in love she can but fall sublimely grand-y, O ; But, though love we know be strong, it will last just short or long? As the object to the taste remains the Dandy, O. So the Soldier feels elated, when a story, well related, Sets his bosom in a fire, so very handy, O ! But, should he only to fight try, he finds 'tis worse by far to die Than to talk about it, that seem'd quite the Dandy, O. 137 The Parson, in the pulpit, would have us all to gulp it, That 'bout wordly things he never can be handy, O ; Shew a better benefice— why, he'll grasp it in a trice, And say Providence for him thought 'twas the Dandy, O. The votaries of St. Stephen, to the truth our ears will deafen, When soliciting for votes in lingo grand-y, O ; And how moderate seem their wishes, till they smell the loaves and fishes, Then they cry, could we partake 'twould be the Dandy, O. Much more there might be said, upon this very head, But if what I've said be to the point so handy, O, Why I'll let the matter drop, and with what I've said I'll stop, Every man his hobby has, and that's the Dandy, O. Tune — Colder Fair. WRITTEN FOR MR. R R, THEATRE, NORTH SHIELDS. O, Molly, Molly ! thou art dead, and I am left behind, To mourn thy loss, and rail at death for being so unkind: But, though thou art for ever lost, thy praises I will sing W 7 hile I a finger have to wag, upon a — fiddle-string. toora loora, &c. 138 My Love she was consumptive — consuming, not consumed ; Her breath was sweeter than the stuff, with which it was perfumed; Her teeth were white as — ebony, her face like a full moon ; Ah, me ! that I should live so long, or she should die so soon ! Her nose, with studs, was beautified, and variegated too — A ruby for the ground-work, when cold 'twas somewhat blue; A leg she had beyond compare, unless with a lamp-post : In Taproom, Vault, and Pot-house too, my Molly was the toast. Her voice, ah me! how musical, whene'er she spoke or sung! With wonder struck, how oft have I upon her accents hung! Her execution excellent, her variations few, No fiddle for accomp'niment, she humbly chose a shoe. Her eyes too were as beautiful as e'er were in a head, When half and half, how brilliant! but ah! when whole, how dead ! And, but for that consumption, and for the life she led, Instead of being in her grave, she might have been in bed. And now to keep my spirits up, and drive off melancholy, I very often drink unto the memory of Molly ; But, though she be for ever gone, what Molly lov'd, so I do, And always like to tip it off, whenever I get dry too. RQttlBSc NOTE FIRST. * For faith I dinna rhyme for bread, Nor yet for claise, The king has bargain'd me to feed, For a' my days." At the time this Poem was written, the Writer was a Gunner in his Majesty's Royal Regiment of Artillery; into which Regiment heinlisted for unlimited service, or, what is vulgarly termed, "listed for life:" but was discharged, at his own request, after serving upwards of six years, by order of the Master General of the Ordnance. NOTE SECOND. « Hail, potent Power ! whose mighty arm can seal The eye, when gazing on the face of Death." A fellow soldier and a friend of the Writer used to tell the following story :— When he was sick in one of the General Hospitals in Paris, a sol- dier, belonging to one of the Regiments of the Line, who was confined in the same ward with him, of an illness of which he died, informed him that, when in the field at the Battle of Waterloo, the Regiment, to which he belonged, got orders to receive a charge of French Cavalry ; he was in the front rankj kneeling, with his firelock advanced, so as to form, with the others, a chevaiw 140 de frise ; be was so overpowered with fatigue, that he dropped asleep on his knee, and continued sleeping until the charge was repulsed ; he was awak- ened by the shakes of his comrades, when orders were given to re-form line : his astonishment might be guessed, when, on looking around him, he saw many of his comrades killed and wounded, who, a few moments before, were in as sound a state as himself. NOTE THIRD. " The Deserter." " One night, when on the march in Spain," said the teller of this story, " we were lying round the watch-fire, the night was very cold, a heavy shower of snow had fallen, the sentry challenged approaching footsteps, and was answered in French ; he was surprised by the appearance of a man desper- ately wounded, particularly in the head ; he was nearly naked ; and made signs to sit by the fire. He pretended to be a Frenchman, and, as we could talk but little French, we, of course, believed him. While he sat by the fire, he began to doze, and fell headlong into it ; his gashed head struck some of the burning embers. Thrown off his guard, by excruciating pain, he sur- prised us by roaring out, ' Heavenly Jasus, what's this},' in a genuine Hibern- ian tone. We lifted him up, and rolled him in the snow ; and, on examining him, he confessed he was an Irishman, and a Deserter from one of the Regiments of the Line ; he had fallen into the hands of some Spaniards, who stripped him, and left him for dead. He was guarded as a prisoner until morning, when, more dead than alive, and in a state of delirium, he was hanged on a tree." Juris* JA H141949 <..s* -^ C' ,' # ^ * 4 °- '- % i %^ :-. 6* * „ - ^ ^ % v 4 <3* ■»,%' ' / 'ko* .*«^ -%.oS aVa'-c V** .- a _r^ . v * Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: March 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724)779-2111 J, . <>: - *- ; ^f <& & ^ 0° V £*4, " S ^\-o, <^ ^^ /^fe V c\^ \> «, * * o „ ^ : "W* A' U * Ho - ^ °^ ; V ^