ADDRESS

TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON.

WHILE Virgin Spring, by Eden's flood,
Unfolds her tender mantle green,
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood,
Or tunes Eolian strains between:

While Summer, with a matron grace,
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade,
Yet, oft, delighted, stops to trace
The progress of the spiky blade:

While Autumn, benefactor kind,
By Tweed erects his aged head,
And sees, with self-approving mind,
Each creature on his bounty feed:

While maniac Winter rages o'er
The hills whence classic Yarrow flows,
Rousing the turbid torrent's roar,
Or sweeping wild a waste of snows:

So long, sweet poet of the year,

Shall bloom that wreath thou well hast won; While Scotia, with exulting tear,

Proclaims that Thomson was her son.

Burns.

SONG.

To all you ladies now at land
We men at sea indite;

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write;

The muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you.

For tho' the muses should prove kind, And fill our empty brain,

Yet if rough Neptune rouze the wind,
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea.

Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind,
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost,
By Dutchmen, or by wind;

Our tears we'll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a day.

The King, with wonder and surprize, Will swear the seas grow bold, Because the tides will higher rise Than e'er they did of old :

But let him know it is our tears
Brings floods of grief to White-hall stairs.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story;

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree;

For what resistance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind?

Let wind and weather do its worst,
Be you to us but kind,

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow we shall find;

'Tis then no matter how things go,
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe.

To pass our tedious hours away
We throw a merry main,
Or else at serious ombre play,

But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you.

But now our fears tempestuous grow,
And cast our hopes away,
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play;

Perhaps permit some happier man

To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in ev'ry note,

As if it sigh'd with each man's care,
For being so remote;

Think then how often love we've made
you, when all those tunes were play'd.

To

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,

When we, for hopes of honour, lose
Our certain happiness;

All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears;
In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity from your tears;

Let's hear of no inconstancy,

We have too much of that at sea.

By the Earl of Dorset, in 1665.

THE AGED LOVER RENOUNCETH LOVE.

AN OLD BALLAD.

I

LOTHE that I did love,

In youth that I thought sweet,
As time requires; for my behove

Methinks they are not meet.

My lusts they do me leave,
My fancies all are fled;
And tract of time begins to weave
Grey hairs upon my head.

For age, with stealing steps,
Hath claw'd me with his crutch,
And lusty youth away he leaps,
As there had been none such.

My muse doth not delight
Me, as she did before;

My hand and pen are not in plight,
As they have been of yore.

For reason me denies

All youthly idle rime,

And day by day to me she cries,
Leave off these toys in time.

The wrinkles in my brow,

The furrows in my face,

Say limping age will lodge him now,
Where youth must give him place.

The harbinger of death,

To me I see him ride;

The cough, the cold, the gasping breath,

Doth bid me to provide