For Freedom, standing by the tree,
Her sons did loudly ca', man;
She sang a sang o' liberty,

Which pleased them ane and a', man.
By her inspired, the new-born race
Soon drew the avenging steel, man;
The hirelings ran-her foes gied chase,
And bang'd the despot weel, man.
Let Britain boast her hardy oak,
Her poplar and her pine, man,
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke,
And o'er her neighbours shine, man:
But seek the forest round and round,
And soon 'twill be agreed, man,
That sic a tree can not be found,
'Twixt London and the Tweed, man.
Without this tree, alake this life,
Is but a vale o' woe, man;
A scene o' sorrow mix'd wi' strife,
Nae real joys we know, man.
We labour soon, we labour late,
To feed the titled knave, man;
And a' the comfort we're to get,
Is that ayont the grave, man.
Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow,

The warld would live in peace, man; The sword would help to mak a plough, The din o' war wad cease, man. Like brethren in a common cause, We'd on each other smile, man; And equal rights and equal laws Wad gladden every isle, man. Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat Sic halesome dainty cheer, man; I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet. To taste sic fruit, I swear, man.

Syne let us pray, auld England may
Sure plant this far-famed tree, man;
And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day
That gave us liberty, man.

ON THE DEATH OF THE POET'S
DAUGHTER.

These tender and affecting lines were written, it is said, on the death of his child in 1795.

On sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave,
My dear little angel, for ever;

For ever-oh no! let not man be a slave,
His hopes from existence to sever.

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy head,

In the dark silent mansions of sorrow,

The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed, Like the beam of the day-star to-morrow.

The flower-stem shall bloom like thy sweet seraph form,

Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom,

When thou shrunk frae the scowl of the loud winter storm,

And nestled thee close to that bosom.

Oh still I behold thee, all lovely in death,
Reclined on the lap of thy mother,

When the tear trickled bright, when the short stifled breath,

Told how dear ye were aye to each other.

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest, Where suffering no longer can harm ye, Where the songs of the good, where the hymns of the blest,

Through an endless existence shall charm thee.

While he, thy fond parent, must sighing sojourn,
Through the dire desert regions of sorrow,
O er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn
And sigh for this life's latest morrow.

ON THE SAME.

HERE lies a rose, a budding rose,
Blasted before its bloom;

Whose innocence did sweets disclose
Beyond that flower's perfume.
To those who for her loss are grieved,
This consolation's given-

She's from a world of woe relieved,
And blooms a rose in heaven.

VERSES ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE
WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG.

The duke of Queensberry stripped his domains of Drumlanrig in Dumfriesshire, and Neidpath in Peeblesshire, of all the wood fit for being cut, in order to enrich the countess of Yarmouth, whom he supposed to be his daughter, and to whom, by a singular piece of good fortune on her part, Mr. George Selwyn. the celebrated wit, also left a fortune, under the same, and probably equally mistaken impression.'-Chambers.

As on the banks o' wandering Nith,
Ae smiling simmer-morn 1 stray'd,
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs,
Where linties sang and lambkins play'd,
I sat me down upon a craig,

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream,
When, from the eddying deep below,
Uprose the Genius of the stream.
Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow,
And troubled, like his wintry wave,
And deep, as sughs the boding wind
Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave-

'And came ye here, my son,' he cried, 'To wander in my birken shade? To muse some favourite Scottish theme, Or sing some favourite Scottish maid?

There was a time, it's nae lang syne, Ye might hae seen me in my pride, When a' my banks sae bravely saw Their woody pictures in my tide; When hanging beech and spreading elm Shaded my stream sae clear and cool; And stately oaks their twisted arms

THE BOOK-WORMS.

Written in a splendidly bound, but worm-eaten, copy of Shakspeare, the property of a nobleman.

THROUGH and through the inspired leaves,

Ye maggots, make your windings;
But, oh! respect his lordship's taste,
And spare his golden bindings.

LINES ON STIRLING.

Written on a pane of glass, on visiting this ancient seat of
Royalty, in 1787.

HERE Stuarts once in glory reign'd,
And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd;
But now unroof'd their palace stands,
Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands;
The injured Stuart line is gone,

A race outlandish fills their throne.

THE REPROOF.

The lines on Stirling were considered imprudent by one of the Poet's friends, when he immediately wrote the "Reproof' underneath.

RASH mortal, and slanderous Poet, thy name Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like

the Bible,

Says the more 'tis a truth, Sir, the more 'tis a libel?

THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON.

As cauld a wind as ever blew,
A caulder kirk, and in 't but few;
As cauld a minister's e'er spak,
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back.

THE LEAGUE AND COVENANT.

This was spoken in reply to one who sneered at the sufferings of Scotland for conscience' sake.

THE Solemn League and Covenant

Cost Scotland blood-cost Scotland tears:
But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause-

If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers