FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. My heart is sair, I dare nae tell, I could range the world around, Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, I wad do-what wad I not, O do thou kindly lay me low With him I love at rest! O MAY, THY MORN. O MAY, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet, And here's to them, that like oursel, And here's to them that wish us weel, THE LOVELY LASS OF INVER NESS. THE lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; For e'en and morn she cries, alas! And aye the saut tear blins her e'e: Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, A waefu' day it was to me; For there I lost my father dear, My father dear, and brethren three. Their winding sheet the bloody clay, Their graves are growing green to see ; And by them lies the dearest lad That ever blest a woman's e'e! Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, A bluidy man I trow thou be ; For mony a heart thou hast made sair, That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH OF HER SON. Tune-" Finlayston House." FATE gave the word, the arrow sped, The mother linnet in the brake O WHAT YE WHAS IN YON TOWN. O WHAT 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, She wanders by yon spreading tree; How blest ye flow'rs that mind her blaw, Ye catch the glances o' her e'e. How blest ye birds that round her sing, And welcome in the blooming year, And doubly welcome be the spring, The season to my Lucy dear. The sun blinks blythe on yon town, And dearest bliss is Lucy fair. Without my love, not a' the charms, 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 has sworn my foe, By beedless chance I turn'd mine eyes,* Had I a statue been o' stane, And frae his harp sic strains did flow, As ever met a Briton's ear! He sang wi' joy his former day, COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR WILLIAM TYTLER, WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARD'S PICTURE. REVERED defender of beauteous Stuart, Of Stuart, a name once respected, A name, which to love was the mark of a true heart, But now 'tis despised and neglected: Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, Let no one misdeem me disloyal; A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh, Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. My fathers, that name have rever'd on a throne; My fathers have fallen to right it; * Variation. Now looking over firth and fauld, Her horn the pale-faced Cynthia rear'd; When, lo, in form of minstrel auld, A stern and stalwart ghaist appear'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, 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 Peunant'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 it being omitted. Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of Liberty, perhaps fortu nately for his reputation. It may be questioned whe ther, even in the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry could have been found worthy of the grandeur and solemnity of this preparation. Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, That name should he scoffingly slight it. Still in prayers for King George Imost heartily join, The Queen and the rest of the gentry, Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; Their title's avow'd by the country. But why of that epocha make such a fuss, But loyalty, truce! we're on dangerous ground, I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, A trifle scarce worthy your care; But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye, And ushers the long dreary night: "Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter shall rue! With tillage or pasture at times she would sport, To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn; But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort, Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. Long quiet she reigned; 'till thitherward steers A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :* Repeated, successive, for many long years, They darken'd the air, and they plundered the land: Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : She took to her hills and her arrows let fly, The daring invaders they fled or they died. The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore ;t The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, O'er countries and kingdoms their fury preYour course to the latest is bright. vail'd, No arts could appease them, nor arms could repel; But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell.§ The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife; Provoked beyond bearing, at last she arose, And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his life: || The Anglian lion, the terror of France, Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, He learned to fear in his own native wood. THE FOLLOWING POEM Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang But wi' miscarriage? WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CON TINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. KIND sir, I've read your paper through, Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't; If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, In Britain's court kept up the game: How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er him! Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives Horatian fame; In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives Even Sappho's flame. POEM. ON PASTORAL POETRY. HAIL Poesie! thou nymph reserved! In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerved Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 'Mang heaps o' clavers; And och o'er aft thy joes hae starved, 'Mid a' thy favours! Say, Lassie, why thy train amang, To death or marriage; ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR, BETWEEN THE DUKE OF ARGYLE AND THE EARL OF MAR. "O CAM ye here the fight to shun, My heart for fear gae sough for sough, The red coat lads wi' black cockades, To meet them were na slaw, man; They rush'd and push'd, and bluid outgush'd, And mony a bouk did fa', man: The great Argyle led on his files, I wat they glanced twenty miles! They hack'd and hash'd, while broadswords clash'd, And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and smash'd, Till fey men died awa, man. But had you seen the philibegs, And skyrin tartan trews, man, They fled like frighted doos, man. "O how deil Tam can that be true? The chase gaed frae the north, man; I saw myself, they did pursue The horsemen back to Forth, man; And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, They took the brig wi' a' their might, And straught to Stirling winged their flight; But, cursed lot! the gates were shut; And mony a hunted poor red-coat For fear amaist did swarf, man." My sister Kate came up the gate And so it goes, you see, man. They've lost some gallant gentlemen, Or fallen in whiggish hands, man And whigs to hell did flee, man." *This was written about the time our bard made his tour to the Highlands, 1787 SKETCH NEW YEAR'S DAY. TO MRS DUNLOP. THIS day, Time winds th' exhausted chain, The absent lover, minor heir, In vain assail him with their prayer. This day's propitious to be wise in. And what is this day's strong suggestion! *This young lady was drawing a picture of Coila from the Vision, see page 108. |