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But, had I in my glory been,

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me.

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks,
In twisting strength I rin;
There, high my boiling torrent smokes
Wild-roaring o'er a linn:

Enjoying large each spring and well,
As nature gave them me,
I am, altho' I say't mysel,
Worth gaun a mile to see.

Would then my noble master please
To grant my highest wishes,
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring treas
And bonie spreading bushes;
Delighted doubly, then, my lord,

You'll wander on my banks.
And listen monie a grateful bird
Return you tuneful thanks.

The sober lav'rock, warbling wild,
Shall to the skies aspire;
The gowdspink, music's gayest child
Shall sweetly join the choir;
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite
The mavis mild and mellow;
The robin pensive autumn cheer,
In all her looks of yellow:

This, too, a covert shall ensure.
To shield them from the storm
And coward maukin sleep secure,
Low in her grassy form;

Here shall the shepherd make his seat,
To weave his crown of flow'rs;
Or find a shelt'ring, safe retreat,
From prone descending show'rs

And here, by sweet endearing stealth,
Shall meet the loving pair,

Despising words, with all their wealth,
As empty, idle care.

The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms
The hour of heav'n to grace,

And birks extend their fragrant arms.
To screen the dear embrace.

Here haply, too, at vernal dawn,
Some musing bard may stray,
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn,
And misty mountain gray;
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam,
Mild chequ❜ring thro' the trees,
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream,
Hoarse-swelling on the breeze.

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool,
My lowly banks o'erspread,
And view, deep-bending in the pool,
Their shadows' wat'ry bed;

Let fragrant birks, in woodbines drest,

My craggy cliffs adorn;

And, for the little songster's nest,
The close embow'ring thorn.

So may old Scotia's darling hope,
Your little angel band,

Spring, like their fathers, up to prop
Their honor'd native land.

So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken,
To social flowing glasses,
The grace be-"Athole's honest men,
And Athole's bonie lasses!"

VERSES

ON SEEING a woundED HARE LIMP BY ME, WHICH A
FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT.

INHUMAN man! curse on thy barb'rous art,
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye:
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh,
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart'

Go, live, poor wand'rer of the wood and field,
The bitter little that of life remains;
No more the thick'ning brakes, and verdant plains,
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield.

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest,
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed!
The shelt'ring rushes whistling o'er thy head,
The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest.

Oft, as by winding Nith I musing wait

The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate

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LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, OVER THE CHIMNEY-PIECE

IN THE PARLOR OF THE INN AT KENMORE, TAY-
MOUTH.

ADMIRING Nature in her wildest grace,

These northern scenes with weary feet I trace;
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep,
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep,
My savage journey, curious, I pursue,
Till fam'd. Breadalbane opens to my view.
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides,
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample sides;
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the hills,
The eye with wonder and amazement fills;
The Tay, meand'ring sweet, in infant pride,
The palace rising on his verdant side;

The lawns wood-fring'd in Nature's native taste;
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ;
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream;
The village glitt'ring in the noontide beam

Poetic ardors in my bosom swell,

Lone, wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell:
The sweeping theatre of hanging woods;
Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods

Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre,
And look thro' Nature with creative fire·

Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd,
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds,
Find balm to soothe her bitter, rankling wounds;
Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch he.

scan,

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man.

*

LINES

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, STANDING BY THE FALL OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH-NESS.

AMONG the heathy hills and ragged woods,
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods;

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds,

Where, through a shapeless breach, his stream resounds,

As high in air the bursting torrents flow,

As deep recoiling surges foam below,

Prone down the rock the whitening sheet descends,

And viewless Echo's ear, astonish'd, rends.

Dim-seen, through rising mists and ceaseless show'rs,
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs.
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils,

And still below the horrid cauldron boils

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