And dear was she I dare na name, And here's to them, that, like oursel, And here's to them that wish us weel, O WAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. O wat ye wha's in yon town, Ye see the e'ening sun upon, The fairest dame's in yon town, That e'ening sun is shining on. Now haply down yon gay green shaw, How blest ye birds that round her sing, The sun blinks blythe on yon town, But my delight in yon town, And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms O' paradise could yield me joy; But gie me Lucy in my arms, And welcome Lapland's dreary sky. My cave wad be a lover's bower, O sweet is she in yon town, Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; A fairer than's in yon town, His setting beam ne'er shone upon. If angry fate is sworn my foe, And suffering I am doom'd to bear; I careless quit aught else below, But spare me, spare my Lucy dear. For while life's dearest blood is warm, A RED, RED ROSE. O my luve's like a red, red rose, That's sweetly play'd in tune. As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, The heroine of this song, Mrs. O. (formerly Miss L. J.) died lately at Lisbon. This most accomplished and most lovely woman was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, which will convey some impression of her attractions to other generations. The song is written in the character of her husband. E. And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run. And fare thee weel, my only luve! A VISION. As I stood by yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care; The winds were laid, the air was still, The stream adown its hazelly path, The cauld blue north was streaming forth Like fortune's favours, tint as win. Variation. To join yon river on the Strath. By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes, Had I a statue been o' stane, His daring look had daunted me; And on his bonnet grav'd was plain, The sacred posy-Liberty ! And frae his harp sie strains did flow, As ever met a Briton's ear! He sang wi' joy his former day, I winna ventur't in my rhymest. * Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-fac'd Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, pear❜d. This poem, an imperfect copy of which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here given from the poet's MS. with his last corrections. The scenery, so finely described, is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing by night on the banks of the river Cluden, or Cloudon, and by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbey, founded in the twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of whose present situation the reader may find some account in Pennant's tour in Scotland, or Grose's antiquities of that division of the island. Such a time and such a place are well fitted for holding converse with aerial beings. Though this poem has a political bias, yet it may be presumed that no reader of taste, whatever his opinions may be, would forgive its being omitted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Libertie, perhaps fortunately for his reputation. It may be questioned whether, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation. E. END OF THE SONGS IN JOHNSON'S MUSEUM. |