Oh Thou! who poured the patriotic tide

That streamed through Wallace's undaunted heart,
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,
Or nobly die, the second glorious part,
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art,
His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)
Oh never, never, Scotia's realm desert;
But still the patriot, and the patriot bard,
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!

A FRAGMENT.

My heart melts at human wretchedness;
And with sincere, though unavailing sighs,
I view the helpless children of distress.
With tears indignant I behold the oppressor
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction,
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime.
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you;
Ye whom the seeming good think sin to pity;
Ye poor, despised, abandoned vagabonds,
Whom vice, as usual, has turned o'er to ruin.
-Oh, but for kind, though ill-requited friends,
I had been driven forth like you forlorn,

The most detested, worthless wretch among you!

WINTER, A DIRGE.

THE wintry west extends his blast,

And hail and rain does blaw;

Or, the stormy north sends driving forth

The blinding sleet and snaw:

While, tumbling brown, the burn comes down,

And roars frae bank to brae;

And bird and beast in covert rest,

And pass the heartless day.

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,"
The joyless winter day,

Let others fear, to me more dear

Than all the pride of May:

The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul,

My griefs it seems to join;

The leafless trees my fancy please,

Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme

These woes of mine fulfil,

Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,

Because they are thy will!

blow

snow

brook

from, hill

Then all I want (oh, do thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy thou dost deny,
Assist me to resign.

A PRAYER,

WRITTEN UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH.

OH Thou great Being! what Thou art
Surpasses me to know:

Yet sure I am, that known to Thee

Are all thy works below.

Thy creature here before Thee stands,
All wretched and distrest;

Yet sure those ills that wring my soul
Obey thy high behest.

Sure Thou, Almighty, canst not act
From cruelty or wrath!

Oh free my weary eyes from tears,
Or close them fast in death!

But if I must afflicted be,

To suit some wise design;

Then man my soul with firm resolves,
To bear, and not repine!

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE:

AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE.

As Mailie and her lambs thegither,
Were ae day nibbling on the tether,
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch,
And owre she warsled in the ditch:
There, groaning, dying, she did lie,
When Hughoc* he cam' doytin by.
Wi' glowering een and lifted hands,
Poor Hughoc like a statue stands;
He saw her days were near-hand ended,
But, waes my heart! he could na mend it.
He gared wide, but naething spak-
At length poor Mailie silence brak.

'Oh thou, whose lamentable face
Appears to mourn my woefu' case!

A neighbour herd lad.-B.

very

together one, halter foot, caught, loop over, struggled walking stupidly

staring eyes

nearly alas

My dying words attentive hear,
And bear them to my master dear.

"Tell him, if e'er again he keep
As muckle gear as buy a sheep,
Oh, bid him never tie them mair
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair!
But ca' them out to park or hill,
And let them wander at their will;
So may his flock increase, and grow
To scores o' lambs, and packs o' woo' !

"Tell him he was a master kin',
And aye was guid to me and mine;
And now my dying charge I gie him-
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him.
"Oh, bid him save their harmless lives
Frae dogs, and tods, and butchers' knives!
But gie them guid cow-milk their fill,
Till they be fit to fend themsel;
And tent them duly, e'en and morn,
Wi' teats o' hay, and ripps o' corn.

"And may they never learn the gaets Of other vile, wanrestfu' pets;

To slink through slaps, and reave and steal
At stacks o' peas, or stocks o' kail.
So may they, like their great forbears,
For mony a year come through the shears:
So wives will gie them bits o' breid,

And bairns greet for them when they're deid.

My poor toop-lamb, my son and heir,
Oh, bid him breed him up wi' care;
And if he live to be a beast,
To pit some havins in his breast!

"And warn him, what I winna name,
To stay content wi' yowes at hame;
And no to rin and wear his cloots,
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes.

"And neist my yowie, silly thing,
Oh, keep thee frae a tether string;
Oh, may thou ne'er forgather up
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop,
But aye keep mind to moop and mell
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'.

"And now, my bairns, wi' my last breath I lea'e my blessin' wi' you baith:

And when you think upo' your mither,
Mind to be kin' to ane anither.

"Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail
To tell my master a' my tale."
This said, poor Mailie turned her heid,
And closed her een amang the deid.

much money

more

drive

wool

always, good

give

from, foxes

provide for tend

portions, handfuls

ways restless

gaps

stem, cabbage

ancestors

many

bread

weep

tup

manners

ewes hoofs

other senseless

next, ewe from

encounter

any, tup

mump, associate

children both

one another

do not

head

eyes, dead

She was nae get o' moorland tips,
Wi' tawted ket and hairy hips,
For her forbears were brought in ships

Frae yont the Tweed:

A bonnier fleesh ne'er crossed the clips
Than Mailie deid.

Wae worth the man wha first did shape
That vile, wanchancie thing-a rape!
It makes guid fellows girn and gape,
Wi' chokin dreid;

And Robin's bonnet wave wi crape,
For Mailie deid.

Oh a' ye bards on bonnie Doon!
And wha on Ayr your chanters tune!
Come, join the melancholious croon
O' Robin's reed!

His heart will never get aboon--
His Mailie's deid!

ween

discretion broke

lonely, inner room

since

valley

ewe

over, hillock

roll

rams

matted fleece ancestors from beyond fleece

woe

dangerous, rope grin

who, pipes

moan

above

A PRAYER IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH.

OH thou unknown, Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear!

In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear!

If I have wandered in those paths
Of life I ought to shun;

As something, loudly, in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done;

Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong;
And listening to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where human weakness has come short,
Or frailty stept aside,

Do Thou, All-good! for such thou art,
In shades of darkness hide.

Where with intention I have err'd,
No other plea I have,

But, Thou art good; and goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

STANZAS

ON THE SAME OCCASION.

WHY am I loth to leave this earthly scene?
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms?
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between :
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms:
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms?

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode?
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms;
I tremble to approach an angry God,
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod.
Fain would I say, "Forgive my foul offence!"
Fain promise never more to disobey;
But should my Author health again dispense,
Again I might desert fair virtue's way:
Again in folly's path might go astray;

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man ;
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray,
Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan?
Who sin so oft have mourned, yet to temptation ran?